


Standard Bearer, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth/Last Alliance, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Tear-jerker, Romance, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2002-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 82,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.</p><p>Gil-galad, Glorfindel, Elendil, Anarion and Isildur - all have their parts to play.</p><p>An illustrated version of this story can now be found at its dedicated website:<br/><a class="bodylink" href="http://www.magic-tortoise.co.uk/standard_bearer/index.html">Standard Bearer</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - A Secret Revealed

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Author’s notes:

The following characters are my own although they are inspired by JRRT, and may share names with some of his: Gildinwen, The House of Amarnon, Argilin, Galeria, Bramar, Greeson, Deanor, Matilda, Dalbur, Daruth, Fastred, Girion, Bregor Gillow, Tom, Will, Rufus, Falcred, Ragnor, Turin, Valmar, Luinil, Brith.

Loreglin is real.

I have tried to stay ‘within canon’ and have done reasonable research on places, names, dates and characters, however I am not a Tolkien scholar, and therefore this story is probably not suitable for purists. 

From Sauron’s attack on Gondor to the battle  of Dagorlad was some five years but for the sake of the pace of the story I have implied that it was much shorter. 

_Italic_ writing denotes Elvish (see previous comment about Tolkien scholastics)

At the end of the day, I have written this story entirely for pleasure, and I hope the reading of it may give you some.

 

The last shadows of dusk were closing in as the Fellowship of the Ring crossed the bridge and took their first steps out of Rivendell and on into adventure. Many members of the House of Elrond stood in silence to watch them go. On these few did the hopes of many ride. As the mists of night swallowed up the travellers, one by one the Elves turned away, until at last only Arwen, fair daughter of Elrond, remained watching. Heavy her heart was, and yet filled with hope. She had given her love to a mortal man, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who walked with the Ringbearer into the lands of darkness. But only if he could win through and reclaim his birthright, the thrones of Gondor and Arnor, would her father give his consent to their union.

“Arwen.” The voice was as soft as the touch on her elbow. It was Galeria, her father’s cousin. 

Arwen smiled sadly at the elder elf, allowing her to take her arm and guide her back along the path. But as they approached the light and warmth of the Great House Arwen stopped, her face troubled.

Galeria smiled softly, “Come to my rooms, it is quiet there.”

 

Arwen sat comfortably by the window and gazed at the slowly appearing stars, until her troubled thoughts were interrupted by Galeria bringing some hot tea.

“Here, drink this. It will help.” She settled herself on some cushions nearby and sipped slowly from her own cup while she waited expectantly. She did not have to wait long.

“Oh Galeria! I cannot bear it. Why must he go away again?”

“You know why. The journey of the Ringbearer is the only hope for Middle Earth.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But why must he prove himself again before Father will give his consent to the marriage? Aragorn has shown himself strong, and loyal many, many times and yet it is still not enough for him.” She laid her head in one hand weeping quietly. “All this about Aragorn reaching too high - can my Father, who is so wise - really value rank and birthright above love?”

“I do not believe that he does, but that he seems to in order to protect you.”

Arwen raised her head, “Protect me? From what?”

“Loving a mortal is fraught with danger. Their hearts are fickle, and their lives short and fragile. In truth, there are some, like the son of Arathorn, who are true but they are few among the many. Most are grasping and selfish, seeing only a few short years into the future.”

“What does that matter? Aragorn is true – even my father cannot gainsay it.”

“Because the life of even the truest of mortals comes and goes with the tide. Aragorn will know only your love, but even though the bloodline of Isildur is long-lived, his years will be soon over, he will age and die, and you will be alone. This is the pain your father would spare you.”

Arwen’s reply was quiet but firm, “ But I have thought of this, and I believe that the joy of love, for even a few short years, will outweigh the loss to come.”

“Your father does not agree.”

“Oh what would he know about it!” answered Arwen crossly, getting up and stamping across the room, “I know he loved my mother, in his way, but it was not exactly a high passion. Nothing like this love that I have for Aragorn. That was why he couldn’t heal her heart after the Orc attack, and why he so easily accepted her choice to go into the West.”

“He is more familiar with your situation than you might think.” answered Galeria quietly.

Arwen halted, and turned slowly towards the older elf. “What do you mean?”

“Your father loved a mortal woman once.”

“No!” Arwen gasped, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“It is true, though it was many years before you were born.”

“How is it that I have never heard of this?”

“Very few have. It took place during the time of the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, and there were a great many more important events to overshadow it.”

“My father? I can hardly believe it.”

Galeria smiled fondly, “It seems strange now, but your father was somewhat different in those days. There was a vitality in him, an impulsiveness, that has tempered with the years.”

Arwen returned to her seat. “Tell me about her. Was she very wise and beautiful?”

“By the marks of humankind she was considered fair enough of face, and wise also, but she was naught to compare with even the lowliest elf-maiden.”

“Then what was it about her that my father came to love?”

“I think that only he could truly answer that, but she had a different kind of beauty. A joy in life, and a love and a compassion that shone in her like a great light. She was brave and true, and had great skill in the reading of men’s hearts.”

“Tell me the story Galeria. Please, all the way from the beginning.”

“From the beginning……very well. The story, like so many, has its roots in very distant times, during the first coming of Sauron. A Man by the name of Amarnon, one of the last of the Faithful, performed a great service to Gil-galad. He was rewarded with many gifts but among the greatest was a band of mithril. Wrought with great skill it could be worn only by one of his line whose heart was true, and once placed on their head could not be removed while they lived, save by their own hand. So great was the gratitude and loyalty of Amarnon to Gil-galad that he had his wife and daughters sew a banner of great beauty, and swore a heavy oath that whenever Gil-galad had need of a Man’s arm, the banner would be carried in his service by one of Amarnon’s heirs – even to the last of his line. 

Every night that his womenfolk sewed, Amarnon had a dream, the same dream, and believing it a prophecy he commanded the words to be written thus on the banner:

_When Man and Elf as in times of old,_

_A line against the Darkness hold,_

_When on the field the armies mass,_

_Firstborn of Amarnon, now the last,_

_Shall with this banner show his hand,_

_And none before the Light shall stand._

 

In the years that followed, the line of Amarnon was much reduced, their treasures dwindled and their houses lost, till at length, in the Outlands of Gondor, only one remained…..”


	2. A Journey Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Gildinwen was only halfway home when a very strange feeling came over her. She hadn’t experienced anything like it since the day her mother had died. 

“Father!” was her only thought as she discarded the heavy bag of herbs and roots she was carrying and raced for home.

Arriving back at the homestead she found her father to be in good health, but something terrible was happening – a large wagon was pulled up in the yard and two hearty men were busily throwing possessions into it.

“Father!” she gasped, breathless, “What’s happening? Is it Argilin? What has my brother done now?”

“My child! My daughter!” Her father rushed towards her his face flushed with pleasure and excitement. “Don’t be alarmed! It is good news! Great news!”

“But Father! Our things!”

“Forget them, they’re not important any longer.”

Behind him the men started carrying out books and papers.

“NO!! Not the books!” cried Gildinwen as she tried to push past her father to stop the ransack. 

“I said ‘Forget them!’” her father commanded, his voice strong despite his bent and weakened frame, and Gildinwen stood in mute acceptance, with only an anguished look to betray her loss.

“Right Master Amarnon, we’re done now. Here’s the money, exactly as we agreed.” The man looked doubtfully at Gildinwen’s stricken face, then shaking his head slightly, mounted the wagon beside his companion, and they were off.

In a stunned and unbelieving silence, Gildinwen walked into the house, bare now save for a few sticks of  rough furniture. The shelves along the back wall, that had held her father’s precious library, were empty now of all but dust. Running her hands over her dark hair in despair, she turned to see her father entering the doorway, the setting sun red behind him.

“Today I have had the news that I have waited my whole lifetime to hear.”

Gildinwen’s expression was suspicious.

“A new Alliance! Of Men and Elves! Gil-galad has sent forth his messengers to call for a force to fight the Darkness that approaches us.”

“A messenger came here?!”

“Well, no, admittedly, but I heard it in the village.”

“A messenger was in the village?” Gildinwen’s face remained sceptical. 

“No….I heard it from Bramar at the forge, and he heard it from a traveller who stopped to have his horse shod.”

“You sold our library, because of some gossip you heard at the forge!”

“Look, it doesn’t matter how I heard. It’s true! I know it’s true! The time has come, our family will rise again. We will once more ride with the great Elf Lords. And perhaps,” he grinned, “ we might find someone that thinks you’re worth marrying before you turn into an old maid!”

“Oh father,” Gildinwen replied sadly, shaking her head, “Don’t you think that perhaps these rumours seem so true, because you desperately want them to be?”

“No! It is the time, we are going to join with the army.” He eyes glowed with anticipation. “My son Argilin will carry the Banner. He will ride at the side of Gil-galad, proud and strong. He will distinguish himself in battle, and the House of Amarnon will be restored to glory.” His excitement rose, “I have money here for the journey, and enough to buy a warhorse and armour. Argilin’s  accoutrements must be those of a great Warrior.”

“Even if that’s the only part of him that is.” muttered Gildinwen under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing Father. Oh look, here comes the epitome of warriorhood now.”

A tall, shock-haired young man, lurched unsteadily in through the doorway and stopped in surprise. “Yaah! What’s happened here? Have we been burgled?”

Gildinwen got up to light the lamps, discovering as she did so that there was only one left. “Oh no, Father’s been investing in your future.”

“Gildinwen! That’s enough! Now fetch us some food, we have much to discuss.”

“Yes, Father.” She began to fetch some bread and placed it on the table along with a wine jug.

“My future!” Argilin sat down and pulled the jug towards him. “Get some more of this will you Gil, I have a powerful thirst.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?” she admonished him in a low voice.

“Oh stop preaching, why must I be cursed with such an earnest older sister?”

“So Father,” continued Argilin, “you’ve finally got the dowry money, so I can marry Lily Wotherspoon?”

“No, no my son. You can forget all that now. I mean your real future.” Master Amarnon leaned forward, his eyes bright. “You’re going to take your place with the Elf Lords, among the great men of the land.”

“Eh?”

“The Banner, Argilin! The time has come, the Elf-Lord Gil-galad has sounded the cry for the arm of Man.”

“The banner? You mean the stories about that old rag are really true?”

“Haven’t I been telling you about them all your life?”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t think they were real.”

“Oh they are, my son. They are! And now the time has come. You! You will be the one.” His rheumy eyes filled with tears of pride. “My son, Argilin, will ride into battle with the Great Lords and restore us to our place.”

“Battle?”

“Tomorrow, we will buy everything you will need. A good warhorse for you, and mules. And armour, the finest armour, crafted to fit you perfectly. The sword of my forefathers will be yours, and the Banner, of course.” He took a breath as if to add something, but stopped. “Then as soon as we are ready we will be off.”

“And what am I to do, Father?” asked Gildinwen quietly. 

Her father looked surprised, “Why you must come also, my child. How could we two manage without you to look after us? And we will need you to speak for us, we haven’t your knowledge of the Elvish tongue.” 

“I doubt half the Elves have her learning of the Elvish tongue, the amount of time she spent poring over your old books.” smirked Argilin.

Her father leaned forward smiling happily, “I would see you take your place among the great ladies of the land. Besides you have healing skills, and they are always much in demand in a battle.”

Gildinwen was mollified, and felt her heart warm with love for her father, and even Argilin. It might work, perhaps this was what he needed, and once he was away from the stultifying atmosphere of the village, seeing the world, he would grow strong and brave.

“Well!” said Argilin, pushing back his chair, and rising from the table. “If I’ve all that to do tomorrow, I’d better get an early night.” He looked round, “ I hope you put the money in a safe place, Father, we don’t want to be robbed.”

“I have safely locked it in the wall cupboard, Argilin, don’t worry. Sleep well, tomorrow a new life begins for us.”

 

Midnight had only just come and gone when Gildinwen was woken by a loud banging on the door. She fought her way out from under the covers and hastily dragged a cloak over her night clothes. Her father was already up.

“Who is it? Who’s there? What do you want?” His voice was querulous, and a little fearful.

“It’s Bramar, Master Amarnon, and Greeson from the Horseman’s Rest.”

“What do you want at this time of night?”

“It’s your son, sir.”

“My son? What about him?”

“He’s,..he’s been injured, Master Amarnon.”

“What? Nonsense! My son’s safely asleep in his bed.”

Her heart suddenly misgiving her, Gildinwen pushed open the door of her brother’s chamber -  his bed was empty and not slept in. “Father!” she cried.

Her father hurried to unlock the door. Outside there were half a dozen men with lanterns and a wagon. 

“Where is he? Where’s my son? What’s happened?”

There was a silence, then Bramar took Amarnon by the arm and led him to over the wagon – the still form of Argilin lay inside.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What? What do you mean?! How is he injured?” Amarnon grasped Argilin by the arms. “Argilin? Argilin!”

“He’s dead, Master Amarnon.”

“No! No. He can’t be! Argilin!”

Gildinwen stood by the cart clutching the cloak around herself, as her mind filled with realisation, and her heart with grief. She turned to Greeson the innkeeper. “What happened?”

He looked at his feet, “There was a fight. Argil was drunk, he had a lot of money from somewhere, and had been buying for the house all night. Then some soldier started talking to Lily, and Argil didn’t like it,” the man shrugged, “he started going on about being a warrior, and how he’d take ‘em on.” He looked over at Amarnon, his face twisted, “I told ‘em to take it outside, and they did. Next thing here’s young Argil with a knife in his chest.”  

“Oh my son! My son!” Amarnon was clutching the young man to his chest, tears pouring down his face. 

Gildinwen dragged a hand over her eyes. “Thank you for bringing him home, Master Greeson, please could you bring him inside for us.”

“It’d be the least we could do, miss.”

 

After the men had gone, Gildinwen sat in the kitchen weeping silently. The sound of her father’s grief from the other room tore further at her wounded heart. She did not even need to ask how it had happened, the broken lock on the wall cupboard told everything. Why had she not suspected when he went to bed so quietly? Oh Argil! My weak, foolish, little brother! All he ever wanted was to marry Lily Wotherspoon, work in the  inn and have lots of fat children. All this talk of Elves and battles was just too much for him.

“Gildinwen.”

“Father.” She stood and they embraced for a long while. “Sit down, I’ll make something to eat.”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“At least have some tea.”

“Alright.” He nodded, taking a seat. “I’ve been thinking about what we’re going to do.”

“Master Bramar said that he’d return later with some men from the village to…..take care of things.”

“Yes. I’d like him buried on the south side of the house, beside his mother.”

Gildinwen set two steaming mugs on the table and sat down beside her father. “Oh Father! I’m so sorry!”

“I know, my child, I know.” He drew his mug towards himself, cradling its warmth in his hands. “I have decided that we will still leave as planned. Since Argilin can no longer go, then I must carry the Banner to Gil-galad myself.”

Gildinwen put her hands out and wrapped them around her father’s, looking deep into his eyes. She nodded agreement, there was nothing here for either of them now. Whatever happened, wherever they ended up going, it was time to leave.

“If only Argilin hadn’t taken _all_ the money,” sighed her father.

Gildinwen reached behind her neck and loosened the silver chain that hung there. “Here Father,” she pressed it into his hand, “Use this.”

“No! I can’t. It is the last of the Amarnon jewels.”

“Then what better use for it.”

Her father still looked dubious. 

She smiled, “We can always buy it back again when we’re rich.”

 

The night before they left her father brought out the Banner and spread it on the kitchen table. It was only the second time she had ever been allowed to see it. The blue and silver colours seemed as rich and alive as the day they had been sewn, although the banner itself showed many marks of battle. The figures and beasts were sewn with such skill that they seemed almost alive. So strange to think that for many hundreds of years, this same banner had been touched by the hands of her forebears. Carried by them in legendary battles. In the centre of the standard the words of the prophecy had been embroidered. She traced them lightly with her finger, carefully making out the Elvish letters. When she had last seen them she had been too little to read. Beneath them was the motto of their House: ‘ _Faithful to the Last_ ’. Her father attached the Banner to its heavy staff, ingeniously designed in sections for easy transport, then carefully rolled it up, fastening the tapes to keep it furled.

 

Dawn was only just scratching the sky as Gildinwen and Amarnon stood ready to leave. They were both wrapped in warm cloaks against the chill autumn morning, Gildinwen dressed in some of her brother’s clothing, her father holding a lighted torch. Gildinwen’s horse Loreglin, a sturdy chestnut with a reputation for bad temper, was already loaded with their baggage. On one side of his saddle her father’s sword was strapped, and on the other side was the Banner, well wrapped in oilcloth.

Their leave taking had all been done the previous day, Amarnon spending many hours beside the graves of his wife and son, Gildinwen walking her favourite haunts for the last time.

“Are you ready, my daughter?”

“Yes Father.” 

Amarnon cast the torch high onto the thatch of the house, where it rapidly took hold. “There will be no returning.”

They turned quickly away and, Gildinwen gripping the horse by the bridle, walked resolutely up the path to the road, their shadows flickering blackly before them in the red light.


	3. The Road South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

The first few days of their journey were uneventful save for the usual hazards of sampling the hospitality of unknown inns.

“We’d have been better off sleeping outside,” grumbled Amarnon, as he yawned and scratched at his latest set of bed bug bites.

“You’re only saying that because it didn’t rain.” laughed Gildinwen.

“Hrrummphh.”

“So do you think we’ll make Ethring today, Father?”

Amarnon scrutinised the sky, “Yes, I think so, if the weather holds. And we’ll cross the Ringlo tomorrow.”

“Where do we go after that?”

“Then it’s on to Linhir.” He smiled, “You’ll be able to see the sea. By then I hope to have had news of where the army will be raised.”

“Why don’t you ride for a while, Father. The ground is very rough, and we’ll make better time.”

“Yes, I think I will, my child.” He walked round to mount up, giving Loreglin’s snapping teeth a wide berth. “Hold this devil’s head for me, will you?”

Gildinwen did so, stroking his neck and talking to the horse fondly, “What a naughty rascal you are, trying to bite Father.”

Her father settled, they started off, and after about an hour they came in sight of the main road, running down from Erech in the North West to Linhir in the South. 

 

The road was busy, and it seemed as if the whole of Gondor was on it, each travelling in a fashion most suited to his nature, and all going South. Leather-faced men of the Northern hills, dressed in rough skins, walked silently in ones or twos; larger groups of farmers, armed with makeshift weapons, strode along singing and chatting to keep their spirits up; Ranks of soldiers, their faces grim, marched resolutely in step, their pikes gleaming; wagonloads of supplies lurched cumbersomely, belongings and laughing children perched precariously on the top; gaggles of women – wives and camp followers – shouted and laughed with each other, while fear pulled tight rings around their eyes.

“Well Father, it looks like we won’t be needing to ask the way.”

Her father’s face glowed with happiness and excitement as they tagged onto the back of a large group.

“Hello!” They were greeted by a shout from a sturdy man driving a large wagon. “I’m Deanor the Smith.” He gestured to the ruddy woman and young child beside him, “this is my wife Matilda, and my son Dalbur. My another son Daruth, marches up ahead with the soldiers. Where do you hail from?”

“I’m Gildinwen, and this is my Father, Amarnon. Our place is a small village in Lamdon.”

“Gildinwen!” exclaimed Matilda with snort “That’s a very high and mighty name for a village lass!”

Gildinwen laughed, “Blame my mother, she was a hopeless romantic! Please, call me Gil.” A small sliver of sadness tugged at her, as she remembered that this was her brother’s name for her.

“So what news, Master Smith?” asked Amarnon “We have been sorely lacking it in Lamdon.” 

“Sauron has taken Minas Ithil and burned the White Tree, Isildur has fled to join his father in the North. Elendil and Gil-galad have formed an alliance - their army is at Imladris, and Anarion is defending Minas Anor against the Enemy as we speak.”

 “Imladris.” Gildinwen whispered to herself, “Gil-galad.” The names from her books were coming alive. For so long she had read about them, now they were real, and it seemed her fate would take her nearer to them yet.

“May we journey with you, Master Deanor?” asked Amarnon. “ I think the road would pass quicker with some company.”

“Indeed you may Master Amarnon. In fact I would recommend it, being as how your Gil is a bonny lass, and this is a rough crowd.”

“Aye, that it is.” confirmed Matilda, “Not the place for a young lady at all! What possessed you to bring her, Master Amarnon?”

“My father and I have only each other Mistress Deanor, we could not bear to be parted.”

“Oh well, not to worry, you’ll be safe enough with us. Dareth keeps an eye out, and makes sure there’s no trouble – he’ll look after you.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Amarnon. 

Gildinwen tugged gently on her father’s cloak, whispering in his ear as he bent down. “I think it would be wise for us to say nothing of why we journey, the thing that we carry is very precious and it wouldn’t do for it to be stolen.”

“And what are you whispering about?” remonstrated Matilda with a smirk, “Did your mother never tell you that it’s rude? Isn’t that right, Dalbur?”

The little boy nodded solemnly but without animation.

“My apologies, Mistress Matilda,” answered Amarnon, “My daughter was just wondering if she would be able to meet your son tonight?”

“Father!” Gildinwen hissed under her breath.

“Oh I’m sure that could be arranged,” said Matilda, with a broad grin, “Why don’t you join us for dinner, my son usually eats with us at night.”

“It would be our pleasure, wouldn’t it Gildinwen?”

“Yes, Father.”

 

That night they made camp after crossing the River Ringlo at the ford of Ethring. Deanor built a great fire and opened a jar of ale, while his wife busied herself preparing food. After settling her father at the fire, Gildinwen went to see if she could help Matilda.

“Well everything’s in hand for the meal, but if you’ve a spare minute perhaps you’d sit with Dalbur for a while.” She lowered her voice, “He’s not been very well lately, poor wee mite.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He has a fever, and no appetite.”

“How long has he been like this?”

“It’s been weeks now,” she looked up sadly, “I don’t like to worry Deanor but the boy’s getting worse everyday.”

“I have some healing knowledge, would you let me see if anything I carry could help him?”

Matilda gripped her hands tightly. “If you can do anything for my wee lad, you’ll have my gratitude.”

 

It was a slow matter to cajole the little boy into drinking the herbal tisane that she prepared, but the promise of a story did the trick, and soon he was nodding sleepily in her arms as he journeyed over the Sea with Eärendil. When he was finally asleep she tucked him up carefully in his bed under the awning of the wagon, and went to join the others as they sat down for supper.

Mildred looked up at her expectantly as she handed her a plate.

“He’s sleeping quietly.” 

“Thank you, Gil.” The older woman touched her hand gently, but then the moment was broken by a hearty voice.

“What ho! Mother!”

“Daruth! Welcome, my son!” She turned to meet a large strong man, his golden hair and beard shining brightly in the firelight.

“I’ve brought some friends too – these are Fastred and Girion.” Two more solid fellows stepped into the firelight. All three were well armed with swords and stout staffs.

“Any friends of yours are more than welcome,” rumbled Deanor getting up to greet the young men. “And we have some more guests today, fellow travellers. This is Amarnon and his daughter Gil.”

A flurry of gruff greetings and hearty handshakes followed, then everyone sat down to eat.

“How’s Dalbur, mother?”

“He’s sleeping for now, Daruth, Gil here has given him something she thinks may help.”

“My thanks to you for that.” Dalbur gave a courteous half bow, “he’s very precious to us all.”

“I can see why,” Gil smiled, “he’s a lovely child.”

 

Gildinwen and her father slept close to the fire that night, wrapped tightly in their cloaks and blankets. Daruth and his friends took watches till morning.

The dawn that came was damp and chill; Gildinwen was wakened by her father coughing and wishing for the bug-ridden comfort of the night before.

“You’ll feel better once you’ve some hot tea in you.” She said, making up the fire, and picking up their kettle. “I’ll just off and fetch some water, I won’t be long.”

 She picked her way quietly past the still sleeping members of the family, and made her way uphill through the trees to where she could just hear the sound of running water. The ground was soft and her footfalls muffled in the moss, overhead silent birds sat huddled, and not a breath of wind stirred the branches. 

Reaching the stream, she had just bent to fill the kettle when she felt herself grabbed  from behind. She twisted violently, managing to break loose.

“Hey!” she shouted angrily, turning to face a rough, dark fellow, his face twisted in an ugly leer.

“Well, well,” he growled,  advancing towards her menacingly, “If it isn’t my lucky day? There’s nothing I like better than a pretty young wench first thing in the morning.”

“Father!!” she screamed, launching the heavy kettle at her attacker’s head, “Help me!” she plunged through the stream but the bank on the opposite side was steep and her assailant reached her before she gained the top. Blindly she kicked out as hard as she could, feeling a grim satisfaction when her foot connected with his head. He kept his hold on her ankle though, and she could feel him trying to get a grip with his other hand. 

“Gil!” It was Daruth.

“Over here! Help me!” Realising she had company, her aggressor quickly released her and disappeared into the woods, just as Deanor’s son rushed up, his sword ready in his hand. 

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

“Yes, thank you. He ran off when he heard you coming.”

Daruth reached down a strong hand to pull her to her feet, sheathed his blade, then jumped down the bank to fetch and fill her kettle.

“Here you are.” 

“Thank you Daruth.” She looked down at herself, she was soaked to the knees and covered in mud. Her face must be just as bad, and even worse, she could feel tears trickling down her cheeks. Ashamed, she wiped them away roughly, trying not to sniff.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Daruth said gently, handing her a large, clean handkerchief as they made their way back down the hill, “I was in tears too the first time I was ever in a real fight. It’s the shock.” He grinned helpfully.

She smiled back gratefully, wiping her face.

“Gildinwen! Are you all right?” Her father was climbing laboriously up the hill towards them, his breathing rough with exertion.

“Yes, father. It was just a fox – it gave me a scare, and I slipped down the bank.” She looked sideways at Daruth.

“Aye, she’s fine, just a scare, like she said.”

 

They made good progress over the next couple of days. Once the sun came up, the morning chill quickly lifted, and the sky was clear and bright before them. The road, busy as ever, was now winding down out of the foothills into the open forest of the land of Dor-en-Ernil. 

“When will we see the Sea, Father?” shouted little Dalbur, jumping up and down excitedly beside his mother.

“Not for a day or two yet, my boy.” laughed Deanor.

“What’s it like? Will I see ships? Will I see Vingilot?”

“You’ll likely not see any ships until Pelagir, though you’ll see boats enough at Linhir.”

“Will they be big ships, Father?”

“Oh, yes. Tall ships, sailing up the mighty river Anduin to the great city at Minas Anor, carrying all manner of things.”

“What things?”

Deanor laughed, “You’ll have to wait and see! Now, how about a ride on the horses in the meantime.”

This idea went down well, and soon the lad was bouncing happily on the back of one of Deanor’s long suffering beasts.

Matilda’s eyes were shining, and she brushed away a tear. “He’s like a different child, I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.”

“Please, don’t mention it, especially after how welcome you’ve made us. Isn’t that right, Father.”

“What, er..sorry, I must have nodded off there for a minute.”

“I said that Mildred and Deanor have made us very welcome.”

“Oh, yes.” He coughed, “very welcome indeed."

 

That night Gildinwen’s father went to sleep early, while she sat up with the others at the fire.

“What are you doing?” asked Matilda companionably.

“I’m soaking some herbs to make a tea for Father in the morning, it’ll help ease his cough.”

“You take good care of him.”

Gildinwen smiled.

Daruth come over from the other side of the fire and sat beside her, looking slightly awkward, and glancing at his mother for confirmation. In his hands he carried a long, slim, package wrapped in cloth.

“I’ve something for you. Well, it’s from all of us really, to say thank you for helping little Dalbur.”

“Please,” Gildinwen demurred, “there’s no need.”

“No, we insist. It’s something you’re going to need and we want you to have it.” He undid the covering to reveal an elegant sword, which he offered out to her. “My father made it for you. He is a member of the Guild of Master Armourers. It should be the right size, robust enough without being too heavy.”

“I can’t take this, it’s too much.”

“Of course you can, dear.” insisted Matilda

“But,” Gildinwen protested, gripping the handle and tentatively hefting the blade, “I’ve no idea what to do with it.” 

“Well, you’re holding it by the handle,” grinned Daruth, “that’s a good start.”

Gildinwen laughed.

“Don’t worry,” continued the young man, “I’ll show you how to use it, and then you won’t need to worry about ‘foxes’ any more.”

Gildinwen held the blade up in the firelight. It felt surprisingly light, and was perfectly balanced. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“We’ll make a start first thing tomorrow morning, before your father wakes.”

 

Another few days travel brought them down onto the broad grasslands of the coast, where shimmering in the distance, and drawing closer with every step, was the Sea. A stiff, cold wind blew inland, bringing with it the smell of salt and sound of gulls. Daruth was a good as his word, and early each morning, while her father still slept, he gave her instruction in the use of the weapon.

“Well done, lass,” he praised, at the end of their latest lesson. “I think you’ve about got the basics now. Not that you don’t still need lots of practice.” He grinned, “But for most offal the mere sight of a blade in the hand of someone who has an idea how to wield it is enough to send them packing.”

“Thanks Daruth!” said Gildinwen, “I’m beginning to think it might just be worth all those sore muscles in the morning.”

Laughing they made their way back to the camp, just as the others were awaking.

“Good morning, Father,” 

Amarnon was huddling close to the fire, still wrapped in this blankets. His face was pale and grey, and his skin clammy. Gildinwen felt his forehead and looked worried.

“He’ll be a bit better for some vittles,” suggested Matilda, “Here, try this porridge, it’s hot and nourishing.”

 

After breakfast Gildinwen’s father did indeed seem a little better. The herbal tea had helped his cough, and Matilda’s porridge had put some colour in his cheeks. They were just packing up ready to leave when a disturbance on the road made them look up.

A horseman, his livery that of the Kings of Gondor, was headed North at a gallop, scattering the crowds before him. The horse was sweated and foam-flecked, and the herald’s clothes mud-caked. Above the sound of the hooves, he shouted a message, “The Alliance is at Emyn Muil! All soldiers to make best speed to Pelargir! Ships await you there! Make haste! We need every sword arm!” and he spurred his mount on.

“Oh my!” exclaimed Matilda. “ Did you hear that?”

Just then Daruth ran up to them. “I’ve only a minute to say goodbye, mother, and then we must be off – we’ve a hard march before us.” He threw his arms around Matilda and gave her a great hug, then a kiss for Dalbur, and a handshake for his father.

“We’ll not be far behind you, my son,” said Deanor, “Smiths will be needed just as much as soldiers.”

“I’ll see you when I can, Father. I must be off. Goodbye Gil!” he called to her.

“Goodbye Daruth! Be safe!” she shouted back, and then he was gone. 

 

The road was in chaos as wagons and civilians cleared the way for the soldiers. A noisy melee of people, animals and conveyances overflowed onto the banks and into ditches. There was no bad feeling, however, instead a kind of grim camaraderie ensured that all were greeted with shouts and cheers, and many heroic songs were sung. Gildinwen and Amarnon soon lost sight of Deanor’s wagon in the crush, and for the rest of the day made such poor going that Gildinwen despaired of catching them up. Throughout the day parties of armed men continued making their way through the crowd on their way South, but as the afternoon drew on, the flow dwindled to nothing – Gondor was empty of fighting men.


	4. Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Gildinwen found the day particularly exhausting as her father was getting worse. He was constantly coughing, and obviously in great discomfort. Many times she tried to get him to stop and rest but he would not have it. 

“You heard the Herald,” he rasped, “The Alliance is at Emyn Muil. The battle will soon be joined. I must be there. I must…..” his voice was lost in a fit of coughing.

“Alright, Father but when we get to Linhir, I’m going to find you a proper lodging.”

It was nightfall by the time they reached the town, and the weather had worsened. It took a great deal of persistence on the part of Gildinwen, and most of the rest of their money but she finally found a fisherman who allowed them to stay in his drying shed, and even threw some firewood into the bargain.

“It smells.” complained Amarnon.

It did.

“I know, Father,” sighed Gildinwen “but we’re lucky to find anything. At least it’s warm and dry.”

She prepared a nourishing broth for him, and gave him some more tea to sooth his cough. Soon he was sleeping fitfully, while Gildinwen listened wakefully to the wind howling outside.

‘What am I doing here?’ She thought. 

 

The next morning, despite a storm starting to blow in from the Sea, her father insisted they go on.

“Please Father! Let us just rest here until the storm blows over, there will be few places to stop between here and Pelagir.”

“No, my child. I must get to the battlefield. Gil-galad awaits me.”

“But you need to rest! Just one more day, then you’ll be stronger and we’ll make better time.”

“No! I am going and that’s an end to it.” Amarnon pulled his cloak tightly about him and started off down the road, leaving Gildinwen to hastily repack their belongings and saddle the horse.

“Come on, Loreglin,” she said, taking the reluctant animal by the bridle and leading him up the road. The horse pushed his head miserably against her side, and she smiled sadly at him, “at least you’ve enough sense to know this is not weather to be travelling in.”

 

The wind blew against them all day, and every step was a struggle. Their hair and clothes whipped about them, their cheeks rubbed raw and their lips chapped. The road was nearly deserted now, and apart from the odd traveller they met no one. Amarnon’s cough worsened until he could hardly draw breath, but he would not allow Gildinwen to stop before nightfall. As she had predicted the wide coastal grasslands of Lebennin provided little in the way of shelter, and the best she could find was a hollow in the lee of some rocks.”

“We’ll stop here, Father, I can’t find anywhere better.”

She reached up to help him dismount and he fell exhausted into her arms, unable even to bear his own weight upright. Biting down her fear, she helped him to sit with his back against the rocks while she got a fire going. His skin was scalding to the touch, his face flushed.

“Come on Father, lie here beside the fire. I’ll make something to eat.”

He mumbled something incoherently.

 “I’m sorry, Father?”

“The Banner.” he croaked, “Where is it?”

“It’s right here,” she indicated the bags.

“Bring it to me.” 

She brought him the tightly rolled package, and feeling it safely under his hands he relaxed a little. Hastily she made some hot tea, and coaxed him to drink a little, but she could not get him to take any food. 

“Gildinwen?” his voice was dry and hoarse.

“Yes, Father. I’m here.” 

“Where’s Argilin? Isn’t he home yet?”

Tears gathered in Gildinwen’s eyes, and she swallowed hard, “He’ll be along in a bit.”

“But I need to see him, I have something very important….” His voice trailed off fitfully.

“Hush now, Father. Try to get some sleep.”

Amarnon was quiet for a time, but his breathing soon became harsh again, and he woke restlessly.

He looked up at Gildinwen confusion in his over-bright eyes, “Argilin? Is that you? What kept you?”

“I’m here, Father.” Her throat was thick.

“Good,” he sighed, “Everything will be alright now.” He pushed the thick package containing the Banner towards her. “This is yours now, Argilin. You must take it to Gil-galad.”

The tears spilled silently down Gildinwen’s face. “Father.” She whispered.

“Promise me.” His voice was weak but urgent.

“I promise.”

He fumbled inside his clothing and brought out another package. “Take this, my son. Open it, open it.”

She did so, inside lay a finely wrought band of an unfamiliar silver-grey metal. 

“It is the Mithril band, put it on.”

“But Father, it is too small to fit, only a child could wear it.”

“Do as I say!”

Slowly she lifted the band and brought it up to her head. As she did so she felt it move ever so gently in her hands, almost as though it were alive, and when she placed it on her head it fitted perfectly.

“Let me see.”

She bent her head, and her father reached up his hand. “It fits! You are the one! I always knew it would be you, Argilin.” He fell back, exhausted.

Suddenly the band shone brightly, and it seemed to Gildinwen that the light was somehow inside her head. A great whirling and rushing came over her, and it was as if all the histories of time, both past and present, and all the lands of the World, were spread out beneath her as she flew at great speed over them. She glimpsed the lands over the Sea; the fall of Numenor; the great hall of the House of Amarnon; Gil-galad’s bright army; the dark tower of Mordor; an odd group of nine companions; the steep, green valleys of Imladris.

As she came back to herself with a jolt, the light in her father’s eyes was fading, tears were drying on his cheeks but a look of joy and peace was on his face.

“Father,” she whispered, and laying her head down beside him, she wept many tears until at last she slept.

 

The cold light of the next morning found Gildinwen awake. Sitting on the rocks above the campsite she watched as dawn split the dark sky in the East. Inside, she felt empty, hollowed out. She was alone now, homeless and friendless. Part of her just wanted to crawl back under her blanket and stay there, but she knew she could not. 

‘A promise is a promise.’ She told herself, ‘I have to do this.’ Besides what other choice had she? There was nowhere else to go, no other path before her. She stood up, taking a deep breath of the new day, fanning the spark of her resolution. She would go on, she would take the Banner to Gil-galad, as her father wished. But first, Amarnon must be laid to rest.

She carried him onto the crest of a small hill, where the clean wind from the sea blew unhindered. Carefully she dressed him in his armour, wrapped him in his cloak, and placed his great sword in his hands. She placed food and drink beside him, and the last of the money that he might have the price of the Journey. Lacking the tools to dig, she gathered the white stones and raised a cairn over him. Then she cried aloud to the wind and the sea:

“Here lies the Last Son of the House of Amarnon, guard him well, and see him safe on his way.”

 

Back at camp, she surveyed the rest of the baggage. If she hurried she might just catch up with the army, but she would have to ride fast, and that meant light. She discarded all the cooking utensils and most of the food, keeping just enough for a couple of days. As an afterthought she tucked in some apples for Loreglin, he deserved them. She strapped one blanket to the back of the saddle, the banner to the side and slung her bag of medicinal herbs over her back. She flung her cloak around her shoulders and wrapped a scarf tightly about her head.

“Right, Loreglin. I think we’re ready.” The horse put his ears back nastily as she tightened the girth. “You grouch.” she admonished fondly.

She mounted, and stood for a long minute looking up at Amarnon’s last resting place.   

“Well, Father, I’m going.” She smiled tearfully, “Exactly where, and into what, I don’t know. But I said I’d go, so going I am. Sleep well!” and unable to bear it any longer she urged the chestnut into a canter.

 

The road now turned east and in the distance on her right she could see the great river Anduin as it widened towards the sea.  The wind was still cold, but it remained dry and the going was good underfoot. Ahead of her Gildinwen could see the road stretching out for many miles, raised on a causeway above the rich green of the floodplain. They made good speed all day, but by nightfall it still remained ominously empty. 

As the next day drew on, however, she noticed a great cloud of dust, signs of a large group on the move. The gap between them closed quickly, and it became apparent within a couple of hours that it was a great host travelling west. Gildinwen slowed to a walk as they approached - not soldiers but ordinary people. These were not cheery folk such as those she had travelled with, instead their faces were hard and grim. They hurried along, their desperation palpable. Mothers clutched infants, fathers dragged children along by the hand. Belongings and possessions were piled haphazardly onto carts and barrows. Mules and oxen, hauled by bridles and goaded with sticks, laboured to move their unwieldy loads. Some of the refugees had only what they could carry, many of them bore signs of injury, they were dirty and their faces hunted. Terrible sounds of grief, fear and loss were their only songs, as the tide of misery flowed West. 

Gildinwen’s face must have shown her shock as she realised that these were the inhabitants of Minas Ithil \- the fortunate ones. This tattered column was all that remained of that great city. 

“What news?” she called to a middle-aged man, somewhat better dressed than his neighbours.

“News?” he spat, “What news do you need to hear? Can you not see it for yourself?”

“What of the army?”

“The last of the army is embarking at Pelargir. We have no more young men to give.” he replied bitterly.

“What of the Alliance? Are Gil-galad and Elendil not bringing an army from the West?”

“Alliance! The Elves promise help but we see nothing of it. Anyway it is too late for us.” He shook his head heavily, and moved on.

‘I must hurry’, Gildinwen thought to herself, ‘If I do not catch a ship at Pelargir, then it is hopeless.’ 

She tried to urge her horse forward to a trot but it was next to impossible against the flow of people. Even Loreglin’s best attempts to bite people in his path did not make much difference.

“Excuse me,” she said, manoeuvring her way between carts.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry. Please, get out of the way.” Coming up against another burdened family.

“You’re going the wrong way, you fool.”

“Thank you, sorry.”

This wasn’t working, she’d be here till nightfall. Frustrated, she pulled her sword out, kicked Loreglin forward and yelled at the top of her voice. “Make way! Let me pass in the name of the King!” Using the flat of the sword she swiped at the nearest pedestrians who quickly vacated the middle of the road. “Move! Move!” she commanded, her voice strong. A path formed and she cantered forward, shouting as she went. 

“Make way, make way!” the shout carried back down the line, “ A messenger of the King” and the crowd parted before her.

 

After an hour or two of this, the crowds began to thin noticeably. Those less able were bringing up the rear, and a pitiful sight it was. The elderly hobbling along, the injured dragging themselves on sticks, pregnant women sobbing as they wondered what future awaited the unborn, lost children wailing desolately as they vainly tried to keep up with the crowd, hoping against hope that they might be reunited with their parents. Behind this river of tragedy was strewn  a litter of discarded belongings. Books, musical instruments, clothing – items once precious, now an unbearable burden, flung down to be forgotten in the dust. Forcing her eyes towards the east, and gritting her teeth against her tears,  Gildinwen urged Loreglin faster. Now was not the time to mourn, she could do nothing for these people.


	5. A Tall Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Dusk was only just falling as Gildinwen crossed the Sirith, and rode up to the gate of Pelargir. It was shut tightly. Using the pommel of her sword she hammered on it impatiently.

“Go away!” shouted an angry voice from inside. “We’ve no room here. You’ll have to carry on West. Find somewhere else.”

“I’ve just come from the West,” snapped Gildinwen, “I’ve been on the road for twelve days.”

“What do you want?” subdued but still suspicious.

“A ship for the North, is there still one?”

“Aye, they’re loading the last one now.”

“I need to be on it.”

“It’s for the battlefield, what business have you there?”

“I’m a healer.”

Silence for a moment, then a heavy wooden shutter was drawn back and a bearded face peered out.

She held up her bag, “These are my medicines.” She gestured about her, “I am alone as you can see.”

“Very well.”

The doors opened reluctantly with a great groan, just enough to let Loreglin squeeze past. He gave the gatekeeper a nip for the inconvenience.

 The streets were largely deserted, and the hooves sounded loud on the wet cobbles. Cracks of light from behind tightly shuttered windows were the only sign of the inhabitants. Despite this, the docks proved easy enough to find. Not only did the road lead right down to them but the whole quayside was ablaze with light, and alive with noise. Several tall ships were docked, but only one was loading. Soldiers and horses waited restlessly on the quay for their turn to board, a lean grey-haired sergeant in charge. Nearby, a small group of well-dressed young men lounged with a bored air, a dozen or so archers had already embarked and were busy choosing the best spots on deck.

Gildinwen dismounted and made her way towards the sergeant.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, lass?”

She looked round uncertainly at the soldiers, mostly young, fresh-faced lads, with one or two seasoned fellows, and felt her heart begin to quail. ‘Come on,’ she told herself, ‘Just do it, without thinking.’

“I’m a healer. I’m going North to the battle. May I travel with your company?”

The sergeant looked at her, taking in her travel-grimed appearance, and sweat stained horse.

“How far have you come?”

“From Lamedon.”

He nodded, “We are without a healer, so your skills would be welcome.” He smiled wryly, “And you seem used enough to hardships already.”

‘More than you know.’ thought Gildinwen sadly.

He stuck out his hand, “I’m Bregor Gillow.”

“Gil Amarnon.”

The sergeant frowned slightly, as if about to speak, but they were interrupted by a cheery shout.

“Hurry up now, Sergeant! The tide won’t wait while you chatter. Get your men on board.”

“Aye, aye, Mate!” Gillow replied with a grin. “Come on then, lads.”

 

They boarded quickly, and Gildinwen tethered Loreglin beside the other horses. She removed the saddle and gave him a good rub down, and soon he was munching happily on some scrounged hay.

She had just found a spot to stow her belongings when there was a sound of hoof-beats from the dockside, and a superb horse galloped into view, the magnificence of its trappings surpassed only by the splendour of the rider. This arrival was greeted by shouts of welcome from the young nobles Gildinwen had noticed earlier, and the horseman guided his mount expertly up the gangway to join them.

“Falcred, you rogue! You always keep us waiting!”

The rider dismounted, a young man, though older than his fellows, with a soft fall of blond hair, and a ready smile. “Ah but I’m always worth waiting for, Ragnor!” he laughed, slapping his friend heartily on the back.

Sergeant Gillow approached the group, and made a short bow to the newcomer. “That’s all the company loaded, my Lord.”

“Good, good.”

“And we have a new addition.” He pointed down the vessel to where Gildinwen was arranging her few possessions. “A healer, my Lord.”

“Excellent, sergeant, I’ll have a word with her later, but first,” he interlocked his fingers and stretched his arms above his head so the knuckles cracked, “I must have a rest and something to eat. Get someone to take care of my horse will you?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

 

 “Stand by to shove off!”

There was a flurry of activity, both on deck and in the rigging. Gildinwen moved over to the rail to watch as the ship moved ponderously out into the river. Behind her she heard a loud flapping and snapping, and turned to watch as the great sails, proud with the colours of Gondor, were lowered to catch the wind. As they filled, the ship shuddered and plunged, and then began to gain speed against the current, cutting swiftly through the dark waters. The banks faded into shadow on either side. A sailor sat astride the very prow of the ship wielding a lead and line to fathom the depth and ensure the ship kept to the centre of the channel.

“Hello there.” A tentative voice sounded at her elbow.

She turned to see a lanky, fresh faced young lad, with a shock of dark hair, so like Argilin that her breath caught.

“Hey, what’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry.” She apologised, “You reminded me of someone for a minute.”

“Someone nice, I hope.”

She smiled, “Yes, my brother.”

“Ah.” He grinned, “Anyway, my friends and I were about to have something to eat and we wondered if you might like to join us.”

Gildinwen’s stomach rumbled a loud acceptance, at which they both laughed.

“I’m Tom, by the way.”

“Gil.” They shook hands solemnly. “Let me just fetch my blanket and I’ll be right with you.”

Gildinwen un-strapped the blanket from her saddle and flung it, still rolled, over her shoulder. After a moment’s thought she also unfastened the package containing the Banner, and improvising a strap, hung it from her shoulder. 

 

Tom and his friends had managed to rustle up a very respectable stew, with dumplings, and they all tucked in with great relish.

“That,” said Gildinwen, sitting back with a groan afterwards, “was absolutely the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“It wasn’t too bad, was it?” replied Will, who was the cook.

“Alright now, lads?” Sergeant Gillow appeared out of the gloom and squatted beside them. “Had a good feed?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” They chorused.

“Good. Any questions for me?”

“How long till we get there?” asked Tom.

“If the wind keeps up, we’ll make Minas Anor by daybreak.”

“Will we stop there?”, this from a worried looking lad who went by the name of Rufus.

“No, lad. We’re to carry on up past Cair Andros, and head straight for the battlefield. Once we disembark, it’ll be about two days hard march to Dagorlad.” He looked worried, “Besides, the landings at Osgiliath are no longer secure. We’ll need to be on our lookout at we pass them.” He paused and looked round him at the circle of faces,  all young, all frightened to one degree or another. He took a flask from his pocket and passed it around. “Here lads, this’ll help a little.”

When they had drank, he offered it to Gildinwen. She sipped cautiously, the liquid was fiery and blazed a hot path down her throat. “Thanks,” she coughed, “I think.” and everyone laughed.

“Right, boys. You should all try and get some sleep, I’ve set the watch, and you’ll be wakened if we need you.”

As the young men shrugged gratefully under their blankets, Bregor touched Gildinwen lightly on the shoulder, and said softly, “May I have a word with you, Gil.”

 

They made their way over to the gunwale, away from the huddles of sleeping bodies. It was quiet, besides the sough of the water and the creaking of the rigging, the only noise was the occasional splash of the depth-sounding from the prow.

Gildinwen leaned over the  rail, taking a deep breath of the damp air, before turning to face her companion.

“So, Bregor, what did you want to talk to me about?”

The sergeant looked at her intently for a long while before he spoke. 

“You said your family name was Amarnon?”

“Yes.” Gil’s voice was guarded.

“That name is not unfamiliar to me.”

“Go on.”

He reached out a hand and lightly tapped the package hanging from her shoulder. “Is this what I think it might be?”

Gildinwen took a step back, suddenly nervous. He knew! But was that a good thing, or a bad?

“Please.” Gillow held up his hands. “I mean you no harm, indeed the opposite. If you are indeed of the House of Amarnon, then I am at your service.”

Gildinwen relaxed a little, “Yes, sergeant. I am Gildinwen, daughter of the House of Amarnon.”

“Is it the Banner of Prophecy that you carry?”

She met his eyes, they were blue and guileless. “Yes, it is.”

“My Lady.” He would have knelt but she stopped him.

“Please, Bregor, there’s no need for anything like that. I’m no great lady. All I own is on this ship.”

“It matters not,” his voice was alive with hope, “you have brought the Banner. Will you carry it in the battle?”

“To be honest,” Gildinwen answered, “I had not thought that far ahead. My only goal was to take it to Gil-galad.”

He nodded, then added, “Had you no brother to bring it?”

Gildinwen looked out at the dark water, “That was my father’s wish, but my brother died before he could carry it out.”

“And your father?”

“He died on the way here, he was an old man and the journey was too much for him.”

“I’m sorry.” He squeezed her lightly on the arm. “So you are the last of your house?”

She turned her gaze towards him again, her forehead creased. “Yes.”

“And you are the firstborn?”

Her eyes widened with realisation.

“Yes, I am.”

He nodded solemnly, “Then the prophecy refers to you. If you carry the standard into battle then we cannot be beaten.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do. And I know that there are others who do also.”

“But what if I’m not the one?”

Gillow leaned forward and grasped her hands. “On a battlefield men need something to believe in, you can give them that. If they believe they cannot be beaten then they will not be.”

“Yes, I think I see, it doesn’t matter whether the prophecy is true or not, if I believe in it, then they will believe in me, and it will come true.”

“Yes.” The Sergeant smiled at her, “Then you will carry the Banner into battle?”

She nodded, reluctantly resolute.

“We will ride with you, and see you safe to Gil-galad’s side.”

Gildinwen grinned, “Don’t you need Lord Falcred’s permission for that?”

“That young whippersnapper?” growled Bregor “I was fighting in battles while he was still in swaddling clothes!” He paused, “No, you’re right, it would be better if he were on our side. I’ll speak to him tonight.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late, you should get some rest, my lady. Who knows what the dawn will bring.” 


	6. The Great River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

It was a good hour before dawn when Sergeant Gillow woke his company.

“Come on now, boys! Let’s have you. Up and ready!”

Sleepy grumbles soon gave way to appreciative murmurs as breakfast was brought round, and by the time they had eaten and the sky was greying, the whole company was alert and ready.

“Right lads. We’re coming up to Minas Anor. We still hold the city, but past it the enemy controls the right bank. The landings at Osgiliath are the danger point. I need you archers in the rigging, and along the rails here, anywhere you can get a clear shot. You others, have your weapons ready in case they try to board.” 

Ahead of them the gorge between the Hill of the Guard, on which was built the city of Minas Anor, and Emyn Arnen loomed darkly. The right bank was still in shadow, the steep and rocky slopes covered with loose boulders. Just as they drew abreast of the city, the light of the rising sun came over the shoulder of the hill and lit upon the roof of the White Tower causing it to gleam like a beacon. A loud cheer rose from around the ship at this good omen, and for the first time all present, sailors, archers, horsemen and soldiers, seemed as one, a single front against the enemy.

 

Gildinwen was brushing Loreglin, and watching the city pass by, when Lord Falcred wandered up to talk to her.

“Good morning.” His voice was soft and rich. 

“My lord.”

He held his hand out to Loreglin. “Is this your horse?”

“Yes, but please be careful, he’s rather ill-tempered.”

He rubbed the horse’s nose affectionately, “He seems in a fine mood this morning.”

Gildinwen looked on with an incredulous smile on her face. “I don’t believe it! He never likes anyone!”

Falcred flashed her a boyish grin, “Well, since your horse approves of me, maybe you’d do me the honour of joining us for a little breakfast.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Excellent.” He led the way over the deck to where his companions were seated at table.

“These are my friends, Ragnor, Turin and Valmar.” He gestured indiscriminately in their direction, before flinging himself carelessly into a chair. “I’m Lord Falcred, my father holds the lands of Lossarnach for Anárion.”

“This,” he gestured at Gildinwen as she settled self-consciously into a spare seat. “so Sergeant Gillow informs me, is the Lady Gildinwen of the House of Amarnon.” 

“Amarnon?” mumbled Turin with his mouth full. “Never heard of them.”

“Neither had I, but then ancient history was never my strong point.” 

Gildinwen frowned uncertainly. Were they making fun of her?

“However,” Falcred’s voice took on a more serious note, “Old Gillow knows a thing or two, particularly about soldiers’ superstitions, and if he says the troops will think that the flag this girl’s carrying makes them invincible then I’m inclined to believe him.”

“What that the flag makes them invincible?” chuckled Valmar.

“No, you fool,” returned Falcred, aiming a crust a Valmar’s head, “that they believe it.” He threw the crust, but before he could tell if it hit its mark, a bone chilling yell reverberated from the valley walls.

 

The nobles sprang to their feet as one, drawing their swords and leaping away to the side of the boat. Gildinwen sat frozen to the spot, her hand tightly clutching the grip of her sword, her heart in her mouth.

“I can’t see anything!” shouted Falcred.

“They’re in the trees!” This was from Sergeant Gillow. “Watch out now lads! We’re coming up on the Landings.”

“Archers, make ready!” Falcred ordered, “You see anything move on that bank, shoot it!”

“Aye, my lord!”

“My Lord!” a shout from the rigging, “They have a line of boats across the river!”

“Damn!” Falcred swore loudly, “Right men, I want you forward, bring spears if you have them. Archers! Be ready!”

Sergeant Gillow was organising his lads at the front of the boat, “Now then, boys. Above all, we must keep them from boarding. They’ll throw grapples as we pass, if they lodge you must cut the lines. Got that?”

“Yes, sergeant!”

 

The sailors were not idle either. Some ran up the rigging to wet the sails in case of attack with fire, others drew their cutlasses and joined the soldiers, still others the Mate ordered below decks, where they unshipped the oars. As the beat of the great drum resonated through the deck, the oars rose and fell, and with each sweep the speed of the ship increased.

Within minutes the Landings of Osgiliath hove into view. The buildings on both sides, formerly prosperous warehouses, were now burnt out shells. The bridgeheads were smashed, and the quays littered with rubble. On the right bank a mass of men, Haradrim, swarthy and dark, clashed their arms and shouted challenges; sinister archers, arrows already notched, lined the bank; while across the water a black line of boats stretched, filled with soldiers.

Falcred climbed a few feet up into the rigging, wrapping one arm about the ropes, his sword arm raised. “Archers! Wait for my command!”

At the forward rail, Gillow readied his men. “Steady now lads. Remember, don’t let them board.”

As the ship sped up the narrow gorge towards the ambush, sails full, oars flashing, some of the soldiers in the waiting barricade began to waver, and as the vessel came on, sprang into the water. 

The impact sent a shudder through the timbers, but the ship was past undamaged. A flurry of arrows rained in from the right, some of the soldiers went down.

“Archers! Now!” and the volley was returned.

A loud clattering was heard as grappling hooks were flung at the sides of the boat, and the soldiers leapt forward to cut the ropes. Some of the enemy made it on board, but they were quickly cut down. The air was again filled with arrows. Sergeant Gillow fell with one in the thigh, but pulled himself upright against the gunwale. Behind him, an enemy soldier was hauling himself on board.

“Bregor!” Gildinwen suddenly found herself in motion, her sword in her hand. “Behind you!” But the Southron had already gained his foothold by the time Gillow turned to face him. A second man was attempting to follow him. As the sergeant faced the first Haradrim, Gildinwen slashed at the hands of his fellow, then put her foot in his chest and pushed him backwards into the roiling water. The first man was pressing the injured Gillow hard. Without thinking she lunged, Deanor’s blade passing easily through the leather hauberk into the man’s flesh. Just as easily it slid out again, and he fell at her feet, his look of disbelief mirroring her own.

Cheers sounded from the rigging. Gildinwen looked around. They had passed Osgiliath. The last of the boarders had been dispatched. They were through. She looked at Gillow, his face was split with a wide grin. “We’ve done it! We’re through!” He looked round at his company, “Well done, my lads! Very well done indeed!”  

All around shouts and noise erupted. Gildinwen wiped her sword and sheathed it before fetching her medicines.

“Right, Bregor, let’s be having a look at that leg.”

Gillow was sitting propped against the rail, taking reports.

“We’ve two dead, sergeant, the bowmen got them. A handful of injured, but I think you’re likely the worst off.”

“Good, Tom. Off you go and make sure they get some food now, will you.”

“Yes, sergeant.”

He winced as Gildinwen removed the arrow. “It’s a bad wound, Bregor.” She frowned, “the muscle of the leg is very badly torn up.”

“It’ll heal though?” Gillow’s face was suddenly very worried. 

“Oh, yes.” She reassured him, “But you’ll have to keep off it.” She looked hard and meaningfully at him, “And I really mean keep off it.”

“Damn!” he cursed. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll be back on it in a few weeks, and somehow I think we’ll all be here a lot longer than that.” 

 

Having seen to the rest of the injured, and set Tom to watch that his sergeant followed her instructions, Gildinwen took herself off to a quiet spot at the stern of the ship. She sat in silence, watching the wake of the boat as it softly folded back into the river, but her mind seethed. She had killed a man today. She didn’t even know him. Who was he? Did he have a family? ‘But he would have killed me,’ she thought, ‘and any of my friends, with no hesitation.’ Did that make it right? ‘Well, I don’t know about right, but necessary.’ That was true. ‘Look Gil.’ She told herself sternly, ‘there’s going to be a lot more of this sort of thing from now on, so you’d better get used to it.’

“Ah, here you are.” It was Falcred.

“I wanted to be alone.”

Despite her lack of invitation, he settled down beside her. He did not speak but handed her a leather bottle of wine. She took a drink gratefully before passing it back.

“First fight?”

She nodded, dolefully.

“You stood up pretty well.”

She looked round at him, her face miserable, “Really?”

“You kept your head, showed courage without taking risks. Just what I look for in a member of my company.”

She managed a smile.

“And you’ve done a good job patching us up afterwards. So, if you want to stay with the company until we reach the battlefield, then we’d be glad to have you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You’re welcome.” he grinned, “My lady.”

 

The rest of the day passed relatively peacefully. Many times enemy were spotted in the thickly forested hills that now made up the right bank, both men and other things, but they took little interest in the ship. They too were heading for the battle to come. The ship passed the island of Cair Andros at dusk and everyone settled down to snatch what sleep they could. This would be their last night on board.

 

They reached the disembarkation site at first light the following morning. Several other ships were moored already, and the sailors called boastful greetings to their comrades. The ships were to remain to take the wounded back downriver.

Unloading was quick and efficient, time was of the essence now. The armies were massing, battle would soon be joined.

Gildinwen spent the last of her time on board checking on the progress of the wounded, and talking to Sergeant Gillow, now seated comfortably, if not happily, in a chair on deck.

“I wish I was going with you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Lord Falcred will look after me.”

Gillow smirked, “Just watch he doesn’t look after you too well! He has a bit of a reputation back in Minas Anor.”

Gildinwen laughed, indicating her stained and grubby clothing with a chapped hand, its fingernails torn and ragged, “Somehow I don’t think he quite sees me in that light.”

“Well, anyway, I’ve asked Tom and his friends to look out for you. They’ll stick by you, whatever happens, until you get to Gil-galad.”

“Thank you.”

“And remember what I said, if you believe, they’ll believe.” He smiled ruefully, “Damn! I’d so like to be there to see it.”

A shout from the dock told her they were ready to move out.

“I have to go, Bregor.”

“Good luck, lass,” he said fondly. 

“You make sure and stay off that leg until it’s fully better.”

“I will.”

She bent down quickly and kissed him on the cheek before hurrying off to join the others.

She took Loreglin from Tom, who was holding him warily for her, and mounted up.

“Right men!” Falcred was once more astride his beautiful beast. This time dressed in gleaming armour, a great sword by his side, and richly decorated helm hanging from the pommel. “It’s two days hard march ahead of us, and a battle at the end of it. We cannot afford to wait for stragglers. If you can’t keep up, then you’re left behind. I don’t promise you glory, I don’t even promise you victory. What I do promise you is a chance at the enemy. To revenge yourself on the scum who took Minas Ithil, who killed, raped and burned that once-proud city. Now who’s with me?”

The shout rose as from one throat, as the whole company, soldiers, horseman and archers gave a great cheer for their leader.

“To battle!” And he set off at an easy trot. Gildinwen fell in behind him along with the other riders, after them, with a smart step, came the archers and the men-at-arms. The supply wagons, with their cooks and armourers, lumbered along at the rear.

Tom rode beside her, along with his friends Will and Rufus. She tried to talk to them during the course of the day, but they were shy of her now.

‘What has Gillow been saying to them?’ she thought.


	7. The Battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

The country they journeyed through was rough moorland. Windy and desolate. To the West, on their left, the land rolled down to the fens around the Mouths of the Entwash, and away to the East the ominous shadow of Ephel Dúath, the outer mountains of Mordor, reached out towards them. The further north-east they rode, the rougher the  land became, the sparser the vegetation - even the very soil was grey and lifeless. As night drew in, and they made camp, the Mountains of Shadow seemed to loom closer, and evil things appeared to lurk at the edge of vision. 

Gildinwen was sitting up late, gazing into the embers of the fire, when Falcred walked in from the perimeter of the camp where he had been checking with the sentries. He flung off his cloak and threw himself down beside her.

“Well, all seems quiet enough but I’ll be glad when we reach the rest of the army. All this spooky stuff makes me uncomfortable. I like to see my enemy plainly in front of me, where I can stick my sword in him.”

Gildinwen smiled. “I know what you mean, it is creepy here.”

“Do you think it’s just our imagination, or are there actually evil things about?”

“Probably both.”

They sat in silence for a while, then Falcred turned to face her. “Gildinwen,” her name sounded awkward on his tongue, “I want to ask you something.”

She looked at him questioningly, “What is it?”

“Well, this business with the banner and the prophecy, do you really believe it?”

“Believe that if I carry the banner on the field then we’ll be undefeated?” she shrugged, “I have to admit that it doesn’t seem very likely.”

“But you’re still going to take it to Gil-galad?”

“Well, yes.”

He sat up, looking more serious. “But why take it to the Elves? Why don’t you bring it to my Father? He’s a Lord of Gondor after all.”

A worried frown creased Gildinwen’s forehead, “But the Banner has to be carried for Lord Gil-galad, that’s what my House is sworn to.”

Falcred looked cross. “Have you ever even met an Elf?”

She was forced to admit that she had not.

“They’re haughty, cold, supercilious beings. Always twittering away in their own tongue. They don’t give two hoots for the likes of us.” He sneered bitterly, “They’ve only joined this Alliance because the Dark was getting too close for comfort.”

Gildinwen was shocked. “Why are you saying such things?”

“It’s not just me, most of the Men in Gondor feel the same. Elves!” he snorted, “What do we really know about them? Very little, and I don’t trust that. So, how about it?”

“About what?” she asked confusedly.

“About bringing the banner to my father, instead of some Elf you know nothing about.”

Gildinwen drew in a sharp breath to tell Falcred just exactly what she did know about Gil-galad, but then she thought better of it. 

“I’m sorry Falcred,” she smiled sweetly, “the truth is I’m only doing this for my father. He made me promise, on his deathbed, to bring the Banner to Gil-galad.” She shrugged, “so you see, I have to.”

“Oh well,” he sighed, with a rueful grin. “It was worth a shot.” He looked seriously at her for a moment, “You know you can always find a place with us if you need one.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. It was comforting to know.

“Alright then,” he rose to his feet and stretched mightily, “I’m off to bed now. Don’t sit up here all night.”

 

During the second day, the land began to slope downwards, the grey soil becoming black, the going rocky and treacherous, the air full of dust and strangely tainted. 

When they stopped that night, campfires were visible on the plain ahead of them. 

“That’s the army.” Falcred was excited. “They’re not more than a few hours away. We’ll leave before dawn.”

His friends were more subdued, and the soldiers quiet. Whether it was the oppressive atmosphere, or apprehension, Gildinwen couldn’t tell. She looked out at the flickering lights for a long time, before sleeping. Beside one of those fires sat Gil-galad. Legendary Elf-Lord. This time tomorrow she would have spoken to him. She felt herself assailed by doubt. Am I going to look like a fool? Falcred’s right, what do I know about Elves and battles, except what I’ve read in books. What am I doing here? Then she thought about her father, dying cold and sick, far from home. That’s why you’re doing this, remember? She touched the Banner, still safely wrapped in its covering, and then slid her fingers up under her headscarf to feel the mithril band snug about her forehead. A warm feeling rose in her, coalesced into an energy, a purpose, a pride. Filthy and ragged she might be, but her blood was that of Amarnon - Faithful to the Last. She would carry the Banner into battle tomorrow, as so many of her forebears had done before her. ‘ _Even unto the last of his line’_ That had been the oath and she would see it fulfilled, not just for her father, but for all the House of Amarnon.

 

They had been on the march for several hours by the time the sun started to peer feebly over the Mountains of Shadow. The wind was harsh and the dust terrible. Gildinwen’s mouth was coated with it, but her throat was too dry to spit. She sipped a mouthful from her waterskin, but there was very little left. They had passed no water fit to drink since leaving the river, and she had given most of what she had left to Loreglin that morning, along with one of the last two apples. He had nuzzled for the other one, smelling it in her pocket, but she told him it was for later. The light started to spread over the plain in front of them just as they descended the last of the slope. At the sight of the armies massed on the field a gasp went up from the company. 

 

To their front was assembled the great force of the Alliance. On the flanks were the mighty armies of Men. The battle standards of Isildur and Arnor to the left, those of Anárion and Gondor to the right. Forests of silver spearheads glinted, the air above them alive with pennants. The sunlight span from bright helms and silver armour, soldiers shouted and clashed their weapons, while powerful war horses snorted and pawed the ground. In the centre was arrayed the full splendour of the Elven host – tall warriors with bright swords and armour green-gold in the dawnlight; horsemen on fast, light mounts, lances gleaming sharply; and archers, their arrows fletched with gold, and tipped with steel. On a rise overlooking all, two great banners lifted side by side in the breeze: the blood-red of Elendil, and the blue with silver stars of Gil-galad.

On the other side of the field, still in shadow, the dark mass of the enemy troops eddied and seethed. Banners flapped like hideous rags above the hidden faces of men  whose armour and weapons shone only with blackness. Beside them, frightful bands of Orcs capered and slavered, their evil blades no less eager than their tongues for the taste of blood, their captains keeping them in line with biting whips and savage kicks. Horses they had also, black as night with eyes wild and teeth bared, and snarling wolves baying and straining at the lease. All around them an evil mist swirled, and over their heads ominous clouds gathered and roiled.

 

They had just finished their descent and were headed towards the rear of the right flank when the silver trumpets of the Elven host sounded, and a great roar went up from the multitude.

“They sound the charge!” shouted Falcred, slipping his fine helm over his head, and drawing his magnificent sword. “To arms! Follow me!” and he urged his horse forward between the ranks of soldiers, his entourage close behind. Lacking any other direction Gildinwen guided Loreglin to follow, Tom and his friends hard on their heels. The noise was deafening, all around the tramp of feet, the jangle of harness and the shouts of the men, as they pushed forward. The dust was bad and the light poor, and even from horseback Gildinwen could not make out much more than the soldiers in front of her. At first the going was difficult, a great crush amid terrible confusion, but soon the men began to spread out a bit and they advanced more quickly. From up ahead they could hear, although not yet see, the sound of combat. A dreadful cacophony of screaming and yelling, clashing and tearing. Over all the call of the trumpets again.

“What do I do now?” thought Gildinwen, bewildered. She looked around for Falcred but had lost sight of him in the heaving tumult. 

Loreglin was having difficulty making way again, and she stuggled to press him on. The soldiers in front had stopped, and some of them had started to fall back.

“What’s happening?” she shouted to Tom. “Did they sound the retreat?”

“No!” he yelled back, “They’re wavering! Losing their nerve! The enemy is pressing us back!”

‘If you believe, they’ll believe’ The words of Sergeant Gillow sounded in her head. Then she seemed to hear her father’s voice. “Now is the time.”

Fear clawed at the walls of her stomach but she forced it down. This is what you came here for, Gil. Too late to change your mind now.

She hurried to undo the bindings holding the Banner to Loreglin’s saddle, fumbling with the heavy wrapping and tearing her nails further as she fought to strip off the thick cover. The sections of the staff  were easily fitted together, and wrapping the strap securely around her left hand, she braced the end firmly against her thigh, all the while trying to push her horse forward through the melee.

She pulled open the tapes that held the banner folded, and its beautiful silk sighed open. There were no militia to march behind it, and it was left to the arm of a woman to carry it, but the battle standard of Amarnon was once more riding to war.

Tom and his friends looked at each other with awe. “It’s true.” they whispered.

In front of her a space opened. She dug her heels into Loreglin’s sides and he sprang forward at a gallop. She lifted the Banner, and as it caught the wind, it snapped open above her head, the ancient colours bright against the dark sky. She flung her cloak off behind her, tore the scarf from her head and ripped her sword from its scabbard. Her blood rose within her, as if crying out for the days of past glory when those of her house were counted among the heros of the land. Doubt was banished from her mind, and fear from her heart.

 “Amarnon!” she cried, as Loreglin charged towards the front line. “ _Faithful to the Last_!”  

Around her the soldiers gasped and shouted as she appeared as if from nowhere. On her brow the band of mithril shone with its legendary starlight, her dark hair tossed about her head, in her hand Deanor’s sword glinted, and overhead streamed the colours of her House.

“The Banner of Prophecy!” she heard a cry.

“Amarnon!”

Loreglin streaked like a flight of red-gold flame, his ears flat, his teeth bared - fierce as any warhorse.

Behind her she could hear more shouting, and the drumming of hooves.

“They’re coming!” yelled Tom from her shoulder.

She could spare no time to look back, the enemy lines were approaching fast. Out in front, a dark bearded man armed with a heavy axe was leading the assault. She set her horse straight for him and rode him down, slashing at his head as he fell. A shout went up from the ranks behind her. More enemy were now beneath her blade. She hacked and stabbed at them, seeing neither who nor what they were, while Loreglin plunged and kicked, screaming and snapping. Beside her Tom and his fellows were giving an equally good account of themselves. In their ears sang an awful storm of sound; in their nostrils cloyed the stink of blood, sweat and fear; and under their feet the cries of the injured were crushed on a ground foul with gore.

Gildinwen felt Loreglin lose his footing, and quickly kicked her feet from the stirrups, just managing to spring clear as he went down. Landing, she slid to her knees on the slick earth. A sword twitched narrowly above her head. Spinning round she disembowelled its owner, his blood soaking her. A second enemy soldier lunged for her, but fell with Tom’s lance in his chest. She lurched to her feet, levering herself up with the Banner, and planted it upright. Beside her was Will, also unhorsed, and together they faced the next two attackers. He cut his fellow down quickly, scarlet blood bright on the dark livery, and turned to aid her. She was facing a short heavyset man, his face hidden by a hideous mask, his weapons a lumpy mace and a flickering sword. He turned to Will, feinted with the sword, then brought the club down hard on his head.

“No!” Gildinwen screamed and thrust her blade deep under his arm. The blood sprayed out, covering her, as she wrenched her sword back.

 

Between one breath and the next it was over. Those of the enemy that were left alive fled back across the field. A cheer of victory tore through the ranks of the Alliance.

Gildinwen stood for a long moment, shell-shocked, her bloody sword limp in her hand. A moan from behind brought her to herself and she turned to see Tom, his jerkin dark with blood. Hastily she knelt beside him. His left leg was trapped under his fallen mount. He groaned horribly when she touched the thigh.

“It’s broken Tom, try not to move it.”

A nasty sword wound had pierced his shoulder, and he was weak from the loss of blood but it didn’t look to be life-threatening. Opening her medicine bag, she packed it with herbs to stem the bleeding and placed a wad of cloth over it.

“Hold that there,” she smiled reassuringly at him, “and don’t worry it’ll heal just fine.”

“What about the others?”

She looked about. Rufus was lying nearby. He was dead.

“I’m sorry Tom.”

His face was anguished. “He lived in my village. What am I going to say to his mother?”

Gildinwen felt tears in her own eyes. “Tell her that he died a hero, died saving his friends and fighting against the Dark.” ‘Small comfort though it might be’, she thought.

She found Will underneath the body of the masked man. He was unconscious, his scalp sticky with blood, and his breathing shallow – but he was alive. She dragged what coverings she could find from the corpses around her and wrapped him up as best she could. Of Loreglin there was no sign. She stood up to look back towards the lines of the Alliance, to see how best to get help for her injured comrades. There were few others nearby, their foray had been the furthest forward and they were almost isolated on the field, the enemy corpses being their most numerous companions.

Behind her, she heard a thundering. The last of those soldiers still at close quarters turned and ran. Just as she whirled to look she heard Tom scream.

 “Orcs!”

It was. A band of about a dozen, mounted and riding straight for them.

“Run, my lady.” Tom’s voice was strangled with fear. She looked down at him, his eyes were wide, his face ghostly white.

She looked up. The enemy came on. At their head, a fearsome Captain crouched low over the neck of his obscene steed. A foul red tongue licked the scabrous lips of his snaggle-toothed mouth, and from the sides of his mangy skull sprouted pointed ears, hideous parodies of their Elven counterparts. By his side two loathsome lieutenants leered and slabbered.

Tom was sobbing with terror.

Strangely calm, she stepped forward and took up her blade again. Without a mount she had no hope to outrun the horses. Better to die here with her friends. 

The awful horsemen were close enough to hear now, hissing and spitting. She stood tall, holding her sword at the ready, and stared defiantly into those terrible eyes. Let them see how the Amarnon die.


	8. Of Elves and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

From nowhere an arrow felled the second-in-command. Its quivering flights a redemptive gold against the black. A horseman flashed in from the left, quickly followed by two others. Elven cavalry. The leader, tall and dark, faced the Orcs with his sword drawn while the others flanked him with bows taut and arrows notched.

The Captain reined his horse savagely, his henchmen milling behind him.

“I want the girl, Elf-Lord!” he snarled.

“You may not have her.” The voice was soft and resonant, almost amused.

The Orc looked down the field. More reinforcements were on their way.

“Another time!” he spat, and wrenching his mount around, headed his ghastly band back towards their lines. 

Gildinwen sank to her knees beside Tom, shuddering with relief. He gripped her hand, “It’s alright. We’re safe now!”

She wiped her face with the least soiled edge of her shirt, and managed a shaky smile. 

“What are his injuries?” The dark-haired Elf had dismounted. He came over and knelt on one knee to examine Tom.

Gildinwen took a deep breath to steady herself. “He has a sword thrust to the right shoulder, and his left leg is broken.”

He inspected the wound. “Is this your dressing?”

“Yes, my lord, it was the best I had available.”

“It is good.” He stood up smoothly and looked down at her. His gaze was very direct. “Are there other injured in your party?”

“Yes,” she scrambled to her feet and led him over to where Will lay, very white and still. “He has had a bad blow to the skull.” 

“It is serious. I will instruct the healers to be vigilant.”

The party of healers were quickly with them, and soon had Tom and Will securely strapped to stretchers.

Tom looked worried. “What’re they going to do to me?” he whispered to her, “I mean, Elves….well they’re strange.”

“Don’t worry Tom. You’ll be safe with them,” She glanced involuntarily at the Elf-Lord who gave a single nod, a small smile about his lips. “I promise.”

“You’ll come and see me?”

“Yes, of course. Go now.”

She watched thoughtfully for a minute as the Elves gently carried her companions off the field, accompanied by the mounted archers. Then recollecting herself she turned to face her rescuer.

“Forgive me, my lord. My concern over my companions has led me to neglect my manners.” She took a deep breath, and spoke formally in Sindarin, “ _I, Gildinwen of the House of Amarnon, do thank you for my life.”_ She bowed deeply.

A smile of delighted amusement passed over his face, and he returned her bow, “ _I, Elrond the Peredhil, Master of Imladris and Herald to Lord Gil-galad, do bid you welcome.”_

Elrond Half-Elven! Gildinwen was suddenly terribly conscious of her dishevelled and blood-stained appearance. Great first impression Gil!

He was looking at her again. Discomfited, she used the excuse of retrieving her sword to break eye contact.

“Where is your horse?”

She looked around sadly. “I don’t know. I think he must have run off.” Poor Loreglin, he would have been terrified.

Elrond mounted neatly onto his horse, which had neither saddle nor bridle in the manner of the Elves, “Come. I will take you to Lord Gil-galad.” He held out his hand for her. It was strong and fine - and very clean.

She looked down at hers, sticky with dried blood, the nails encrusted with dirt, and back up at him. He did not withdraw. Shrugging mentally, she grasped his hand, pushed off hard with her foot, and swung up behind him. 

Pausing for a moment to allow Gildinwen to snatch up the Banner, the smoke-grey slipped easily  into a fluid canter, heading across the field to the centre of the Elvish host, where Gil-galad’s battle standard snapped proudly.

As they rode towards the ranks of the Alliance, Gildinwen could see that the battle had been fierce. A great number of dead, both friend and foe, lay still on the field. Healers ferried the injured back to their lines. 

“So many lost.” She whispered, not realising she had spoken aloud.

“Indeed,” Elrond answered her, “It was a great and terrible battle, and I fear only the first of many.”

Gildinwen turned her attention from the death-strewn plain to study the Elf-Lord. Sitting so close up behind him she could see that he also bore the marks of the day’s battle. Flecks of blood spattered the delicate plates of his close fitting armour, and there were rents in the blue cloak. Through the long, dark locks, casually knotted with a scrap of cloth, she could see sweat and dust marring the fine skin of his neck and...

She pulled herself up short. Woah there Gil! She shook herself inwardly, perhaps it was some sort of delayed battle shock. She forced her eyes to look away. They were coming up on the lines of the Alliance, crossing in front of the first flank, through whom she had ridden that morning, that lifetime ago.

She was startled to hear cheers, and to see soldiers stand and wave as they rode up.

“They shout for you.” Elrond called back to her, above the noise. 

“For me?” she was amazed, “But how do they know who I am?”

“I doubt there is a being on this field who will not know who you are, and what you carry, after today.” His voice became more serious, “Both on this side, and the other.”

She felt a touch of fear, “Was that why the Orcs came out?”

“It was.”

“Then the soldiers must cheer as much for you, for you saved me today.”

He looked thoughtful, “If it helps to strengthen the bond between Men and Elves during this war then that can only be considered a good thing.”

 

Their reception in the ranks of the Elves was less effusive, although many of them raised their weapons in salute.

Looking at the faces of the warriors as they rode through, Gildinwen saw curiosity mixed with suspicion.

“Do Elves mistrust Men also, even as the humans mistrust them?” she asked Lord Elrond.

He nodded, “Yes, the rift has been many slow years in the making, but that does not make it easier to bridge.” 

The Elf-lord slowed his mount to a walk as they reached the Elven camp. Many tents and pavilions adorned the hillside behind the battlefield. At the doorways, horses were tethered and arms placed at the ready, while flapping pennants proclaimed the identity of their occupants. At the front of the camp, a large, flat terrace gave a view of the surrounding land, and it was here that Gil-galad had his headquarters. A long avenue of tents led up to a large, beautifully embellished pavilion, outside of which several chairs and tables had been set up under an awning. Men and Elves sat and stood about the tables, looking at maps and discussing the reports laid there. 

Elrond eased his horse to a halt, and they dismounted. He left his mount in the care of a waiting page, and turned to her.

“Come.”

They walked up onto the concourse, and as they approached, the talk ceased and every eye was turned upon them. On both sides the Men and Elves drew back leaving a clear passage, at the head of which the reknowned Lord Gil-Galad stood to greet them.  A powerful Elf-Lord, both in mind and body, he stood tall and strong. His gaze noble, his eyes searching, arrayed in glorious battle armour, the fabled spear Aeglos at his side. 

Gildinwen’s step faltered as her heart quailed within her. She felt Elrond touch a gentle hand under her elbow, and taking strength she drew herself up and walked on, gripping the Banner tightly in front of her.

It seemed like both the longest and the shortest walk of her life. All around was silence, save for the crunch of her footsteps, and she could feel herself scrutinzed from every side. Looking up at the face of Lord Gil-galad, he seemed to draw her on, at once both kindly and forbidding. When she reached him, she knelt and placed the Banner at his feet.

“ _I, Gildinwen, Daughter of Amarnon, do bring you this Banner in fulfilment of the oath of my House, and pledge you my service as long as you shall have need of it._ ”

He reached down and placed a palm on her head.

“ _I, Gil-galad, Lord of Lindon, and High King of the Noldor, do accept you._ ”

Beneath his hand the band of mirthril shone, and for a moment Gildinwen appeared not as a battle weary mortal, dressed in her dead brother’s clothes, but as a maiden of the House of Amarnon, in whom the blood of the Faithful flowed strong and pure.

Gil-galad withdrew his hand and took his seat once more, gesturing to her to sit on a stool nearby, as around them the chatter resumed once more. He motioned to one of his pages, who came and took the Banner from Gildinwen, and with great reverence placed it outside the pavilion of Lord Gil-galad beside those of his own house.

“So, tell me,” Lord Gil-galad’s voice was deep and sonorous, “ Is it that there are no more sons of Amarnon, that a daughter comes to fulfil this duty.”

Gildinwen nodded sadly, “Yes, my Lord. My brother died before we left, and my father,” she swallowed, “just after we passed Linhir.”

“That is grevious news, your House was ever Faithful.” He looked at her critically, “You have the Amarnon spirit as well as the countenance. You did a great service today. You turned the tide of battle in our favour.”

“Oh no my Lord,” she shook her head, “I played but a very little part.”

“Sometimes only the smallest weight is required to tip the scales.” he replied. “Your father would have been very proud of you today.”

Gildinwen felt the tears well in her eyes and she bowed her head, “Thank you my lord. I can wish for no higher accolade.”  

Shouts from the edge of the perimeter drew their attention to the arrival of a group of knights. Two detached themselves from the others and strode up the field towards Gil-galad, their shadows long in the late afternoon light. The elder was tall and broad, with fair hair just starting to fade to silver and  a dignified countenance tempered by smiling eyes. The younger, darker and bearded, was shorter, with an intense look.

“Elendil!” Gil-galad stood up and walked out to greet his guest. “Welcome.” The two leaders embraced. “Isildur.” He clapped his hand to the younger man’s shoulder.

“So Gil-galad,” cried Elendil, “Not a bad first day, eh?”

Gil-galad indicated chairs set out, and the new arrivals sat, stretching themselves comfortably with groans.

“No, indeed, my friend.” He replied, “Let us hope it can continue.”

“Ho ho!” said Isildur, his eyes alighting on Gildinwen, “I see you found your standard bearer my lord!”

She looked up uncertainly.

“Is she really of the Amarnon?”asked Elendil, looking round at her. “I thought that House had long since passed into memory.”

“She is the last of them.”

“But how can you be sure?” said Isildur, “Might she not be an enemy spy?”

Gil-galad laughed. “No indeed! She wears the mithril band, the very one I myself placed on the head of her forebear. Only one of the house of Amarnon whose heart is true can wear it, and none can take it from her while she lives.”  

“I see,” the son of Elendil replied, looking more closely at Gildinwen.

A steward whispered in Gil-galad’s ear. 

“Come, my friends,” he rose from his chair, “Food has been prepared, eat with us.” He led them off through the dusk to where a large fire was burning and tables had been laid with food.

“You too, my lady.” The steward smiled at her, “I’m sure you must be hungry.”

The moment she thought about it, she was – ravenously hungry.

 

Having filled her plate, she found an agreeable spot, near enough to the fire to be warm, but far enough from the others to be private, and sat down to eat. The food was simple but delicious, the best she had tasted for a long time. After she had eaten she sat back to settle herself more comfortably. A lump in her pocket dug into her side, and she fished it out. It was the last apple. She felt her face crumple. Oh Loreglin, where are you now? It was as if everything suddenly came to a head all at once. Losing her home, Argilin, the death of her father, the battle, her friends dead and injured, and now Loreglin lost. She clamped one hand over her mouth as a despairing wail rose in her throat, and clenched her eyes shut but she could stop neither the tears spilling down over her fingers, nor the silent sobs that shook her.

After a minute or two she became aware of a presence, and opening her eyes saw Lord Elrond kneeling in front of her, a hand gently placed on her shoulder, and a look of concern in his grey eyes. 

Her sobbing receded but despite all her eyes continued to weep. He looked down and lifted her hands, gently opening them to reveal the apple. He picked it up and looked at her quizzically. She felt her mouth twitch. It was ludicrous, crying over an apple.

“It was for my horse.” She wiped a wet cheek, “but he’s lost, and I don’t know where he is.”

“Is he a good horse?”

“No,” she smiled tearfully, “he’s a very bad horse, always trying to bite people.” She sniffed, “But I love him, and he’s the last I have of home.”

He placed the apple back into her hands and softly closed them over it again.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ll be fine. It’s been a very long day, and I just need to get some rest.” 

“I’ll fetch Luinil, he will know where you are to be billeted.”

She looked up to meet his eyes, catching a fleeting shadow of old sorrow, “Thank you.”

After a few minutes, during which time she managed to collect herself, the steward arrived and showed her to a small tent, a few rows behind Lord Gil-galad’s pavilion. 

“This has been set aside for your use, my lady. I trust you will find everything you need.”

“Thank you.”

It was dark inside, but she easily found the sleeping pallet on the floor, rolled onto it, and was quickly asleep.


	9. A Very Bad Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

She was awoken the next morning by a gentle voice at the entrance to her tent, and groggily opened the flap to see a page holding a steaming basin.

“Luinil instructed me to bring this to you.” He carried it in gingerly. 

Gildinwen touched a finger to the warmth – it was heavenly. “Please thank him.”

“Generally we’re quite short of water,” he grinned, “so don’t be expecting this every day.”

She smiled back, “I won’t, and thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my lady,” he called over his shoulder as he ducked out.

Looking around the tent she found some soap and towels, as well as a clean set of clothes. After a thorough wash, and dressing in the fresh clothing, she felt completely renewed. There was not enough water to wash her hair, so she settled for combing and braiding it. Her new clothes were in the livery of Gil-galad’s house, such as she had seen many Elves wearing the day before. The neatly-fitting trousers were somewhat long, but the thigh length tunic and sleeveless mantle fitted well.

Stepping outside the tent she made her way uncertainly up to the concourse where she had been the previous evening. Gil-galad and his council were already poring over their papers. At the outskirts she hesitated, then with a deep breath walked forward.

“Good morning my lords,” she bowed.

“Ah! The Lady Gildinwen,” replied the Elf-Lord. He held up a paper, “Do you have the tongue of the Dunlending?”

“Yes, my lord, both speech and writing.”

“Excellent!” He motioned her over and gave her the letter, “Translate that for me, and make two copies.”

“Yes, my lord.” It looked like all those hours spent poring over her father’s old books were going to come in useful.

She retired to the far end of the table, gathering the materials she would need. A page placed a plate of bread and fruit beside her, along with a cup of spring water.

The day passed thus, Gildinwen quietly copying and translating many letters and reports, while the tide of Men and Elves ebbed and flowed around Lord Gil-galad. When it came to the late afternoon, and she had finished the last one, she dared to ask if she might be excused for an hour or two.

“I had two friends with me yesterday who were gravely injured, I promised that I would call to see them.”

Gil-galad nodded and waved her away, “Luinil will fetch you, if I have need.”

 

The hospital tents for the Men were set up between the two camps. They were spacious, with the sides rolled up to admit light and air, but many cots crowded the floor. In every one lay a human, each with his own injury, his own pain.

As she walked among them searching for her friends, Gildinwen heard many call to her.

“The Lady of Amarnon.”

Awkwardly she touched the hands of those that reached out to her, smiling to give them what comfort she could.

“Gil!” Tom’s voice reached her from the next row, and she stepped to his side with relief. He looked suddenly embarrassed, “I mean, my Lady.”

She smiled broadly, “Tom! You’re looking well.” And he was. “So, have you changed your mind about the Elves?”

He blushed and nodded.

“How’s Will?” 

“He’s asleep now,” Tom pointed to a bed nearby, “But he’s regained his senses.”

“That’s good.”

“The Elf that has been caring for him says he’ll make it, but it will take a little time.”

“And what have the healers been saying about your injuries?”

He grinned, “I’m made of strong stuff, the sword cut is closing already.” The grin faded a little, “the leg will be longer though, it is broken in two places.”

“You’re lucky there are Elves here, a human surgeon would have taken it off.”

He looked solemn, “I know, and I’ll never be mislead by others’ stories again, not without seeing for myself and making up my own mind.”

“Good lad.”

A disturbance outside the tent drew their attention.

A stout fellow lying on a stretcher, the front of his tunic stained with blood, was yelling. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” 

An Elven healer holding a jar of ointment was trying to attend to him. “Your wound needs to be seen to.”

“I’ll have no stinking Elvish potions.”

“I am trying to help you!” the healer was a young Elf, her beauty dark and ethereal.

The soldier flailed his arms blindly, fear and pain clouding his vision, knocking the jar to the ground. “Leave me alone!” he cried.

“Excuse me a minute, Tom.” Gildinwen hurried over to the healer, whose face was taut with exasperation.

“Pardon me,” she asked diffidently, “Maybe I can help.”

The healer’s face was sceptical but she held out a palm towards the hysterical patient, “Please.”

Gildinwen knelt at his side and took hold of his shoulders. “Soldier!” she shook him. “Look at me!” 

He quietened a little.

“Do you know who I am?” her voice was commanding.

He made an effort to focus on her, then nodded, “The Lady Amarnon.”

“Good,” she spoke more softly, “Now do you trust me?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She picked up the jar of ointment and examined it, putting a little to the tip of her tongue, then she smiled. “This is an unguent of meadow-wort, and flaxfoot.”

“Oh.” The soldier looked sheepish, “My old mam uses that.”

“There’s nothing so strange about Elven medicine, they just use different names to us.” She smiled comfortingly. “Now, may the healers attend you? I assure you there is nothing to fear.”

He nodded, grappling for her hand as she stood up. “Bless you, my lady.”

The Elven healer motioned to one of her helpers to treat the man then turned to Gildinwen with a friendly smile, “I’m Galeria. If you have time we could use you here, we get many such incidents.”

“I am at Lord Gil-galad’s command, but I will be happy to help you however I may.”

And so for the rest of the afternoon, and on into the early evening, Gildinwen helped the Elven healers. Many were the injuries from the previous day’s battle – flesh torn by sword and lance, heads and bones crushed by axe and club, bodies pierced by blade and arrow. Gildinwen cleaned, and bandaged, wrapped and comforted. Every man had his wound, his story - a friend lost, an enemy cut down. To each she tried to give what she could, kind words and soothing hands, and by the end of the day she was exhausted.

Dusk was falling when the Elf Galeria came to her. “Come now, let us go and eat. Tomorrow there will be more needing our care.”

 

They walked together back into the Elven camp, a little way behind the rest of the healers. Galeria, proving to be a merry soul, chatted in a friendly manner.

“I have two brothers here. Gildor there, “ she indicated a straight-backed Elf with a fall of dusky hair who walked a few steps in front of them, “He is with Lord Gil-galad’s household, and Galdor, who is apprenticed to Cìrdan, the shipwright. My grave cousin Elrond, you met yesterday.”

As they approached the terrace she pointed out another. “That’s Cìrdan with the white hair, he’s ever so tall, even for an Elf, and always very serious. And that gorgeous creature,” she sighed as she indicated a beautiful Elf, his brow clear and bright, his hair spun from gold, “is Glorfindel.”

As they made their way up the gentle slope towards the terrace, the sound of horses came from behind them. Looking round, Gildinwen felt her breath catch when she saw that it was Lord Elrond astride his grey, cantering easily towards them. Then she noticed his companion, a riderless horse. A chestnut horse. Her heart leapt for joy.

“Loreglin!” Turning, she ran heedlessly down the hill, pell mell, her arms wide, a look of pure happiness stretching across her face.

Laughter in his eyes, Elrond eased the horses to a stop, just as she reached them. She flung her arms around Loreglin’s neck and hugged him tightly.

“Oh Loreglin!” she scolded, smiling through her tears, “You bad, bad horse! Where have you been?” He looked at her sheepishly and rubbed his head against her chest. She squeezed him again, and patted and kissed him all over his dear, wonderful face.

Lord Elrond dismounted and she turned to him. “Thank you!” She wiped her face. Did she have to start crying every time she saw him? “Thank you so very much.” Shyly she reached out a hand and touched him lightly on the arm, then turned to Loreglin again, hiding her face against his neck, as she led him away.

She did not see the Elf-Lord’s keen eyes following her, a smile flickering on his lips, nor did she see Galeria’s thoughtful look.

 

The next morning, the ranks were once more drawn up for battle, the enemy had been set back, but they were a long way from being defeated. Little did any of the bright host realise, as they waited battle-ready for the dawn, that they would be many months on that filthy, blood-soaked field, before they pushed the dark lord Sauron back to his festering stronghold of Barad-dûr.

Gildinwen was again mounted on Loreglin, placed behind the mighty Lord Gil-galad, beside the standard bearers of his own house. Elven armour had been made for her, but she had kept Deanor’s sword. From the corner of her left eye, she could see Lord Elrond, once more arrayed in his battle dress, the green-gold plates fitting close to his lithe body, his long limbs loosely astride his mount, hair and cloak snatching at the wind. She smiled to herself, ‘Keep your mind on the job, Gil. There’ll be time enough for daydreaming later.’

The sun flashed over the mountains, the silver trumpets spoke their warcry, and with a roar the Alliance, Men and Elves, charged the field of Dagorlad, against the Enemy, against his foul creatures and against the very Dark itself.

 

 

Author’s Blurb: I feel this is quite a weak chapter, it’s a sort of bridge between different parts of the story, and I didn’t feel it turned out too well. I’d appreciate your views on this. Just for interest, originally Loreglin was going to die in the battle, but then I thought it was too sad, and the real Loreglin started looking at me accusingly every day, so I just had him run off – which had the bonus of allowing another scene between E & G.


	10. A Truly Evil Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

The Plateau of Gorgoroth was a foul and filthy place, the ground pitted and ruined, the black earth wasted and sterile. The soldiers of the Alliance scarcely noticed it, however, so fast did their foes retreat in front of them. Men and Elves had been many cold months fighting hard on the plain of Dagorlad, but once the foe had broken at Morennan, he had fled quickly, those that did not scatter racing to take refuge in the terrible tower of Barad-dûr, the great fortress of the dark lord himself.

Finally, with darkness falling, and the dreadful tower looming on the skyline, Gil-galad called for a halt, and they stopped for the night. There was little comfort to be had, no fuel for fires or cooking, and but the bare ground to sleep on, with cloaks for cover. 

“Ooh!” groaned Gildinwen, settling herself down on the hard earth, “I’m so tired I think I could sleep on a rock.”

“Just as well,” remarked Elrond dryly, laying out his blanket nearby, “For I doubt it is possible to find a place free of them.”

Sleep proved to be more elusive than she had hoped, however, as spirits remained high in Gil-galad’s camp.

“They are on the run now, with their miserable tails between their legs!” gloated Isildur.

“Aye,” his father replied, “But many of them will make Barad-dûr, and I doubt that will fall so easily.”

Gil-galad nodded in agreement, “It will be a siege my lords, and a long one I fear.”

From the edge of the camp came the sound of approaching horses, halting to the sound of the sentry’s challenge. Soon, two men appeared out of the gloom and bowed to Elendil.

“My lord!” The messenger handed over a fat packet, “From your son, the Lord Anàrion.”

“What news of my brother?” cried Isildur, leaping to his feet, as his father busied himself opening the missives.

“He is victorious, my lord! Minas Ithil is retaken!” the messenger’s grin was bright in his dirt-darkened face, “The orcs and foul creatures have been driven forth, and the city is free again!”

“That is great news indeed!” he clapped the messenger on the back. “Here Man!” he handed him a flask, “Have a drink to celebrate.” The man and his companion joined the others amid shouts of merriment and greeting.

“More news for you, my son.” Elendil passed him a letter from the packet. “Your wife’s hand if I’m not mistaken.”

Isildur tore open the seal and devoured the contents. “A son!” he cried. “A boy! Born two months ago in Imladris! Valadil he is named.”

“That is indeed good news! And your wife, she is well?”

“Yes, she has recovered quickly.” He read on, “She has returned already to Minas Ithil,” he hesitated, “ Being tired of the quiet life at Rivendell.”

“Anàrion writes that he will join us soon.”

“Let us have a proper celebration, Father! To mark the victory, and the birth of a new child.”

Elendil looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded, “Yes, it will put heart in us to remember good things for a time.”

 Isildur lifted his flagon, “To victory, and Valadil.”

 

Sighing with annoyance and discomfort, Gildinwen sat up, this was hopeless, she would never get to sleep. She looked over at Elrond, he lay still, his grey eyes gazing up at the night sky - dreaming without sleeping as Elves do. His dark hair was disordered, and his face sad, as it often was in repose.  She longed to reach out and comfort him, a now-familiar warmth suffusing her limbs at the thought. Initially she had marked it as no more than a girlish infatuation. It was quite natural for her to feel drawn to someone following the loss of her family, and when that someone was practically immortal it made even more sense. But although her head understood all this quite logically, somehow she had been unable to make her body take note, and months later, if anything, it was worse. She was constantly distracted by his hands, his hair, his voice. At night she was tormented by dreams, and during the day the sight of him striding over the battlefield, or kneeling beside a casualty would rush her blood and scatter her thoughts. 

At first she had dared to hope that something might come of it. His acts of kindness towards her when she first arrived had fuelled that spark, but as time went on he withdrew, wrapping a coldness and a sadness about himself that she could not penetrate.

“My Lady?” a quiet voice sounded at her shoulder, and she looked round at the friendly features of Luinil.

“What is it?”

“We’ve had some wounded come in, and the other healers have not come up yet, would you attend them?”

She groaned inwardly, but set a smile on her face, “Yes, of course.” She shrugged off her blanket and stood, picking up her satchel. 

“I will come with you.” Elrond was already on his feet.

 

At first she did not recognise the young man she tended, his face and clothes heavy with the black dust of the plain, it was only when he spoke that she saw who it was.

“Lord Falcred!”

“Hey!” he grinned at her, his teeth white in his grimy face, “Gildinwen! I thought you were an Elf in the dark! You’re dressed just like one.” 

“Yes,” she grinned back, “I’m serving in Lord Gil-galad’s household.”

He shook his head in exaggerated disapproval, “I don’t know…young women today.”

She gave his injured shoulder a quick squeeze.

“Ow! Watch it!”

“You should be less rude to your healer, then these things wouldn’t happen. Now lie quietly while I dress this wound.”

“Yes, my lady.” he replied, with mock obedience.

A handsome man, his tanned face topped by thick dark hair, his clothes of high quality beneath the dirt, appeared to kneel beside them.

“Here you go, Falcred,” he grinned, “get some of this in you.”

“Brith!” Falcred leaned forward to take the bottle, “Wherever did you find it?”

“Oh, let’s just say I called in a favour or two.”

Falcred took a deep swallow, “Ah! That’s better.” He pointed to Gildinwen, “This is the Lady Gildinwen.”

The man bowed, a predatory smile on his face, “Indeed, she needs no introduction.”

“This is Lord Brithiar, who holds the south of Ithilien for Isildur.” 

The older man demurred, “Just plain Brith will do out here, we’re all soldiers together.”

Gildinwen finished binding up Falcred’s wound and sat back.

“Here you go,” he offered her the bottle, “Have a drink.”

“No, thanks.”

“Come on! Celebrate our great victory!”

“We haven’t won yet.”

“In Minas Ithil we have! The city is free, and the  people return home as we speak.” He grabbed her arm in excitement, pressing the bottle on her, “Come on, just a little one.”

“I believe her answer was ‘no’.” Elrond’s voice was stern from behind her. Brith leapt to his feet at the sudden noise, his sword halfway out of its curiously ornate scabbard before he realised who it was and relaxed again. 

Falcred raised his hands in a parody of surrender. “Alright, alright. I meant no harm.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially in Gildenwen’s ear. “Elves! No sense of humour, you know.”

She smiled, despite herself, and patted him fondly on the arm, “Get some rest, Falcred. And don’t have too much to drink.”

 

Between them Elrond and Gildinwen quickly finished tending the rest of the injured, and started back towards their camp. With luck she might just catch a couple of hours of sleep before dawn.

As they passed through a dark defile, a dreadful shriek split the air. Gildinwen started with fright, only just managing to keep from grabbing the Elf-Lord’s arm, “What was that?” she hissed.

There were more sounds now, jeers and mocking laughter.

As they approached the end of the gully, she could see a group of men gathered in the darkness. A feeling of dread came over her as they approached the group, and she had to make a conscious effort not to shrink behind Lord Elrond.

The awful scream echoed again, appearing to come from a bundle of rags lying on the ground. Laughter followed it as before. Now they were close enough to see the truth. Cowering on the ground, at the feet of the men, an Orc, one of Sauron’s fell footsoldiers. Limbs bound, they had impaled him to the ground with a lance through the belly. She watched with nauseated horror, as the soldiers pressed their heavy boots into the torn flesh, laughing uproariously as the creature writhed and screamed in agony.

Horror turned to pity, and pity to anger, driving her forward with flashing eyes and lashing tongue.

“What are you doing?!” she demanded, her voice laden with rage.

The men looked round at her, bemused. “Just a little sport, my lady.”

“Care to watch?” one of them kicked the prisoner again.

“You can have a turn if you like,” replied another, provoking much laughter from his fellows.

Gildinwen’s voice was icy with fury, “You should be ashamed of yourselves, torturing a helpless creature.”

“It’s a filthy Orc.”

“Aye, they would have done the same to us.” The voice was sullen and resentful.

From the shadows behind her came the almost imperceptible metallic shiver of an Elven blade leaving its scabbard.

Gildinwen’s eyes glowed, “That’s right!” she snarled, “They would have done the same to us. Are we then become as they are? What are we fighting for, if we are no better? This _sport,_ ” she spat the word, “is not worthy of you.”

“Alright then,” sneered the leader, “You want him so much? He’s yours.” He leaned forward and wrenched out the lance, provoking further gurgling cries from the prisoner, then kicked the vile brute towards her. It shuffled its bound and broken limbs pitifully, moaning with agony.

 “Try healing that!” The men laughed, it was an ugly sound. They waited insolently to see what she would do.

Gildinwen looked down at the odious wretch, slavering and moaning, trying to clutch at her feet with its bloodied hands.

Pity and revulsion vied within her. Only in this evil place could such a thing occur. She knelt down, the stench gagging her. The eyes, red and inhuman, stared from the mutilated face. She could not read them. She closed her eyes for a moment. She knew what she had to do but the thought made her cold inside. Very gently, she touched one hand to the side of that repulsive face, and the creature quietened for a moment. Then she raised the other. Her surgeon’s knife flashed, and the torment was over.

 She stood, white and shaking, and stared defiantly at the now silent spectators, until one by one they melted away into the dark. Her face twisted and inside she felt nothing but a sick emptiness. ‘I’m so tired.’ She thought, ‘I can’t do this anymore. I just want to go home.’ Only she had no home now, only this tainted battlefield, with all the filth of body and mind that it encompassed.

Elrond stepped out of the shadows without speaking, to stand beside her.  

She turned her gaze back to the torn and mutilated body at their feet. “Is this evil?” she asked him bitterly, “We none of us choose what we are born to. Can we be surprised that that which is brought into the darkness knows nothing of the light?” 

“This is not the Evil, Gildinwen,” his eyes were lost in shadow, “but only a symptom of it. These weak and tormented creatures are but a tool in its hand.” He laid a gentle hand on her arm. At any other time such a touch would have set her heart alight but now she felt only a barren emptiness. “Come away.”

 

Less than a week later, the temporary encampment was almost unrecognisable. Tents and pavilions had been brought up from the rear, and regular supply lines established along the roads from Minas Anor.

“Now that’s what I call a meal!” groaned Elendil, sitting back from the great table set out in front of Gil-galad’s new headquarters. 

“Indeed,” replied the Elf-Lord, with a smile, “It has been long since we ate so well.”

Gildinwen, seated with Galeria, and some of the other younger Elves at a smaller table nearby, had to agree. But for her the best part about their new camp was the ready supply of water, brought along the road in great barrels mounted on wagons. Just being able to wash everyday seemed such a luxury now.

“Now then, hear this!” Elendil was on his feet addressing the whole company, “To honour my great ally, and generous host,” he bowed to Gil-galad, “and to mark the liberation of the city of Minas Ithil,” he grinned, “as well as the birth of the newest member of my house. I am going to give a celebration! Feasting, music and dancing! Let us show you how the Men of Gondor and Anórian fête their victories! One week’s time – and you’re all invited.” He gave a magnanimous gesture encompassing all the company.

Murmurs of appreciation, and a smattering of applause from the Elves, cheers and loud hammering on the tables from the Men present.

Galeria clapped her hands with glee. “Oh, how wonderful! Music and dancing! It seems so long since we had anything joyful!” Her delight was infectious and Gildinwen felt herself grinning with pleasure, it would be fun! 

“I see Lord Elendil’s proposal has your approval!” Glorfindel teased Galeria as he and Elrond came over from the main table to join them.

She blushed becomingly, “Oh it will be wonderful! To hear music and singing!” she reached out to take Gildinwen’s hand,  “To get out of these clothes and into something beautiful again!”

Gildinwen’s face clouded for a moment, she had only her everyday wear. Oh well! At least she could wash it now.

Galeria’s sharp eyes had noticed the change in her friend, however, and she easily guessed the cause. “Don’t worry!” she whispered to her, “You can borrow something of mine, I always bring too many clothes.”

Gildinwen laughed and squeezed the Elf’s hand with gratitude, her grin returning.

 

The days leading up to Elendil’s celebration went quickly. The anticipation in both camps was great, with everyone was looking forward to forgetting the realities of the war for a few hours. A great convoy came down from Minas Ithil, and Gildinwen watched with Galeria as it arrived.

At the head, mounted on a white horse, beneath a leaping banner adorned with the setting sun, rode Anárion. Noble in countenance and flush with victory, he bowed regally to the cheering soldiers who lined his route. Many warriors accompanied him, and their numbers were welcomed by Elendil and Gil-galad. Wagons there were in plenty, groaning with food and luxuries, and heavy carriages, their embroidered hangings rich and sumptuous, carried the Ladies of Gondor and Arnor.

“That’s the Lady Varadil,” Galeria pointed to the most heavily adorned of the conveyances. “Wife of Lord Isildur, and a great beauty.” She pursed her lips, “Can’t say I care for her much, though. She’s very vain. I much prefer Anárion’s wife, Tuiliel. She’s a very accomplished singer.”

 

The next day, Gildinwen found herself once more helping Lord Gil-galad with letters and correspondence. In addition to her language skills, she had become adept at codes and ciphers, and in recent weeks that talent had been in great demand. There was much to be done, and it was almost dusk before the Elf-Lord took notice of her restlessness and released her.

She ran towards the tent she now shared with Galeria, not wanting to miss a single minute of the evening’s entertainment. Inside her friend was nowhere to be seen but hot water was waiting.

“Bless you, Luinil!” she said aloud, as she dragged off her tunic, and hopped out of her trousers.

Then something else caught her eye. Laid out on her pallet were several gowns. 

“Oh Galeria!” she breathed as she sank into the hot tub, “Thank you!”

Once she had bathed, and combed out her long hair to dry, she allowed herself to look at the garments. All were of fine, beautiful silk, their colours shimmering and embroidery resplendent. The one which she was drawn to was a deep, iridescent blue, wonderfully embellished at bodice and hem with gold stitching. It fitted perfectly.

She twirled around delighted! It was even the right length.

“Are you ready yet?” Galeria’s excited voice sounded outside.

“Coming!” she grabbed her cloak and flung it over her shoulders, ducking out the tent.

The Elf-maiden stood waiting impatiently, her spring green gown matching her eyes perfectly, delicate gold filigree adorning neck and wrist.

“Oh! Lovely!” she cried as Gildinwen emerged. “It is a much better fit than any of mine would have been! Wherever did you get it?”

Gildinwen looked confused, “It was inside with the others, isn’t it one of yours?”

“No, silly!” the Elf laughed, “It would be too short for me.”

“Oh!” Gil stopped, perplexed.

“Perhaps Luinil rustled it up, he is good at that sort of thing.”

Gildinwen’s brow cleared, “Of course, he must have brought it along with the water – what a treasure he is!”

A polite cough sounded behind them, and they turned to see Lord Elrond, elegantly attired in a simple dark blue tunic, an Elven cloak hanging casually from his shoulder, his hair loose about his face. Gildinwen felt her throat lock so that she could hardly draw breath, and had to look away.

He bowed to them. “Greetings ladies! May I say that you both look especially lovely this evening.”

Galeria giggled girlishly, and Gildinwen blushed till she thought she would catch fire.

“May I?” He stepped between them, turned and held out an arm on each side. Galeria laughed as she grabbed hold, “Delighted!” she replied in a mock formal voice.

Gildinwen felt her heart well within her as she placed her hand on his long forearm, feeling the muscle taut through the fine fabric.

The others chattered during their walk to the Men’s camp but she remained silent, nor could she have told what they had spoken of.

 

 

Note: I have been unable to find the names of Isildur’s and Anárion’s wives in any of my reference books, only those of their sons, so I have resorted to inventing them. If you know the real ones, let me know and I will change them. 


	11. The Dance of Rivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Elendil’s camp had been transformed into something from a fairytale. Hundreds of flickering lamps hung from poles, thick carpets covered the rough ground, gorgeous awnings and pavilions sheltered groaning tables and all around soft music sounded. 

“Oh, it is delightful!” exclaimed Galeria, her eyes bright. “Don’t you think so?” she peeked round Elrond to catch her friend’s eye. 

“Oh yes!” Gildinwen’s face glowed with happiness, she could almost feel her eyes fill. ‘No crying!’ She scolded herself, and resorted to an irrepressible grin instead.

“I see some of our friends!” Galeria started forward, dragging the others behind her, “Come! Let us join them!”

Gildinwen felt Elrond’s arm slide out from under her hand as Galeria pulled him on, but just as she thought to lose him, she felt his strong hand clasp hers, and the steps with which she followed Galeria’s laughing ones seemed to float on the very air itself.

The group of younger Elves had commandeered a large table with a good view. They happily squeezed up to make room for the newcomers and soon everyone was settled and eagerly watching the spectacle unfold.

Elendil stood in front of the top table to greet his guests. He was dressed magnificently, his tunic thickly embroidered with gold, and a crown upon his head. Behind him hung gorgeous tapestries depicting legendary battlescenes, while above a richly appointed canopy glowed with colour. Silence fell as Gil-galad approached. His formal robes blazed with the countless stars of night, his face solemn beneath his simple coronet, his step long and firm and his bearing regal. At his right hand strode the shipwright, Cìrdan, his white hair shining, his face grave. 

Once the guests of honour were seated, Elendil’s family advanced. Isildur, as the eldest, took precedence, and a gasp was audible as he appeared with the Lady Varadil. Truly she was the most beautiful woman. Her hair like a river of molten sunlight, her skin radiant, her face flawless. She moved with the grace and lightness of a deer, her body supple and waist narrow despite the four sons she had given her lord. A delicate hand rested lightly on Isildur’s sword arm, and even the slight distance in her summer-sky eyes served only to enhance her beauty. She was attired in the finest silks, exquisitely sewn with gold and pearls, and arrayed with the finest jewels to be found in Middle Earth. Her husband’s face shone with pride and happiness, as he handed her to her place at his father’s left hand, then seated himself beside her.

A slight movement caught Gildinwen’s eye and she glanced away from the pageant to see a tall, good-looking man, whom she could not quite place, moving round behind the crowd his eye riveted on the Lady Varadil. She nudged Galeria discretely.

“Lord Brithiar,” her friend whispered. 

Of course, Falcred’s companion.

“The Lady Varadil was betrothed to him once,” continued Galeria in a low voice, “But she broke it off to marry Isildur. They say he never got over it. Certainly he never married.”

“Oh.” breathed Gildinwen, “Isildur is his leige-lord, is he not?”

“That is so, and as such Brithiar has no recourse against him. It was considered very bad judgement for Isildur to take the betrothed of one of his vassals, but he could not be persuaded against it.”

They hushed again, as Lord Anárion and the Lady Tuiliel stepped up. The younger of Elendil’s sons was slightly taller than his brother, his fair hair unruly above keen blue eyes, his chin clean-shaven, his mouth smiling. His wife was shorter, her build shapely, her face rosy and blooming, a mass of chestnut curls spilling down her back. They walked closely together, and when they sat, Anárion held her hand tenderly in his.

The food served was delicious, but Gildinwen could only nibble at it, and even a glass of wine failed to alleviate her dry mouth. Beside her, Elrond reclined indolently in his chair, long limbs loose in a posture of abandonment. His dark hair lay softly against the fair skin of cheek and neck, the elegant tips of his ears parting the fine strands. Sitting here among the talk and laughter of her friends, her head a little giddy from the wine, she knew there was no point in denying it. Her whole body felt like a tinderbox, just one spark was needed to set her alight. Every nerve was taut like a harpstring, just one touch and she would sing out. A song of love, a song of desire. 

She was distracted from her musing as the tables were pushed back, and the floor cleared for dancing. Galeria pulled her chair up beside Gildinwen. 

“You must tell me all about the dances, Gil! Although we Elves dance, it is generally something that is performed as an art, like singing, or for one’s own pleasure, but I understand it is different among Men.”

“Oh very different!” exclaimed Gildinwen, “For us dances are a social activity, and strongly linked with courtship.”

“How so?” Galeria was fascinated.

“Well, young people go to dances to meet each other. When a young man sees a girl that he likes, he asks her to dance.”

“Do they dance by themselves?”

“Oh no, many couples will dance at once, and the dance steps are fixed so everyone knows what to do.”

“And what if a young woman sees a man that she likes?” Galeria’s face was mischevious.

Gildinwen laughed, “Unfortunately, there is no custom to allow for that. She must wait for the young man to make a move first.”

“And if he does not?”

“Then either she can dance with another who does ask, or else she must wait in vain.”

“And there are different types of dances?”

“Certainly! Some are dances of friendship, that you might join in with a brother, or an uncle, some are intimate, that one would only share with a lover, and there are many in-between. Some are fast and furious, and some are slow and close. There are dances for spring, for summer, for harvest and mid-winter. For birthdays, weddings, and just about any occasion you can imagine.”

In front of them, the muscians played the introduction, and amid a bustle of activity, the men scrambled to claim their partners, and take their places in the set. In addition to the ladies from the great cities of Gondor who had travelled down the previous day, many camp followers and other such lowly lasses had been drafted in for the evening.

“So does the music tell which dance it is to be?”

“Indeed. This is a Boatman’s Reel. A fairly typical dance to start the evening with – quite suitable to dance with a stranger.”

The dance started in earnest, and Gildenwen felt her feet tapping along to the lively music. The dancers whirled and stamped, their clothes bright and faces happy. Among the young sons of Gondor she noticed Lord Falcred, resplendant as always, and his friends from the ship. Laughing they spun their partners, and galloped heartily across the floor, all thoughts of war banished for a time.

 

After several dances, a break was announced and some singers came out to take over the entertainment. Many songs of battles and victories were sung, reflecting the mood of the gathering. The soldiers joining in loudly with their favourites. After a few of these, and following much insistence, the Lady Tuiliel got up to sing a very different type of song. A sad lament, of a young wife waiting in vain for her husband’s return from war. 

After it was over,  Galeria sighed appreciatively. “I liked that.” She turned to her friend again. “It  seems to me Gil, that among humans, the male and female are very different.”

Gildinwen laughed aloud. “That is indeed the case! Is the same is not true for Elves, then?”

“No,” Galeria shook her head, “we are much the same in our thoughts and feelings. From what I have seen of humans, and from your songs, it seems to me that the might of men is in strength of body and feats of daring, but for women it is in endurance, the silent bearing of heavy burdens of heart and mind.”

Gildinwen made no reply, but her face was thoughtful.

The musicians struck up again, and the floor filled with dancers once more. Glorfindel made his way through the crowd towards them. 

“Greetings.” He beamed at Gildinwen and Galeria, “And how are you enjoying the evening?”

“We are having a wonderful time!” replied the Elf, “Isn’t that right, Gil?”

Gildinwen had to agree wholeheartedly.

“Good!” replied Glorfindel, “Now, I’m afraid I have to deprive you of your escort for a while, Lord Gil-galad has need of him.” He turned to Master Elrond and whispered in his ear. “But I hope that I may do in his stead.” He drew up a chair and settled himself beside Galeria, looking over at her with a shining smile.

Elrond pushed back his chair and stood up, “Please excuse me, ladies. I shall return as soon as I may.” 

Applause rippled through the company as the dance finished, and when the musicians started the next, a great cheer of excitement rose from the assembly.

“A Cirthar!” exclaimed Gildinwen. “Now you will really see something. It is very energetic and furious, and the couples compete to dance the fastest and most complex steps.”

Galeria clapped her hands with glee.

“It is also traditional that no girl may refuse this dance if asked,” continued Gildinwen, “unless she be already betrothed. And for this reason it is also known as the ‘Dance of Rivals’, as sometimes a young man will use it as an opportunity to steal a dance with another’s partner.”

She looked up from explaining this to see Lord Falcred standing in front of her. His blonde hair was disarrayed and his face pleasantly flushed from exertion. He bowed and extended his hand, “My Lady Gildinwen, may I have the pleasure?”

Astounded, she found herself led onto the dance floor, Galeria’s delighted laughter ringing in her ears. Couples already on the floor huddled in consultation, planning their strategies.

“My lord, I…” she stammered.

“I noticed that you hadn’t danced all night.” Falcred grinned, his handsome face beaming at her. He leaned towards her, “You can dance a Cirthar, can’t you?”

“Can I?!” Gildinwen feigned outrage, “I’ll have you know I was the best Cirthar dancer in our region!”

“Ha! I knew you’d be good!” he exulted. “Mardaroc variations?” This was the most intricate form.

“Of course.”

“And a double jump after the crossover.” It was ambitious, especially with an untried partner.

She felt a spirit of recklessness come over her, and grinned broadly, “Very well.”

They lined up and the dance started. Leaping and spinning, feet flashing in the pattern of the dance, the couples flew around and about. The secret to dancing a Cirthar well was to never take your eye off your partner, and Gildinwen kept hers locked on Falcred’s smiling blue ones. 

She did not notice Elrond return to his seat, frowning as he spotted her on the dance floor.  Nor the frown turn to a glare as Galeria whispered, laughing, in his ear.

The tempo increased, the onlookers clapping in time. Maintaining perfect rhythm, Gildinwen and Falcred matched the beat, their feet drumming in harmony. The spirit of the Cirthar filled her whole body, her blood sang with it, her head tossed proudly, the wild heritage of Gondor possessing her. Conscious only of the music in her ears, the grip of Falcred’s hand on hers and the subtle signals in his face, she gave herself over to the dance. As the musicians played furiously towards the finale, and they span through the crossover, she felt Falcred take hold of her waist – a double jump! The man was mad! Despite this she leapt high in the air, not once but twice. The onlookers shouted with delight and applauded as the two dancers came to a perfect stop, and bowed towards each other, as the music faded.

Gildinwen collapsed in a nearby chair, breathless with laughter and delight. “Oh heavens!” she loosened the neck of her gown and fanned herself ineffectually with a hand, “I can’t remember when I last had so much fun!”

Falcred’s glowing face was split by a huge grin, “Come on!” he pulled her to her feet, “I’ll get you something cold to drink.”

Grabbing a bottle, he dragged her out into the night.

The cool air was wonderful against her hot skin, and she breathed deeply. They walked a little way between the lines of dark tents before finding a seat at a deserted campfire, its embers low, the usual residents part of the noise and light behind them. 

He handed her the bottle, and she took a deep drink, it was a light cider – deliciously refreshing.

“Thanks.”

They sat for a while in silence. Gildinwen enjoying the feel of the night breeze, leaning back to look at the stars bright above them.

“Gil?”

“Mmmm.”

“I spoke to my father about you.”

She turned to look at him.

“And, well, there’s something I want to ask you.”

“What is it?”

He faced her, running a hand awkwardly through his wayward hair. “I’m only the second son, but I hold lands of my own, and command the Company, as you know.”

She felt a feather of suspicion tickle the back of her mind.

“You’ve done what you came here to do. You’ve brought the Banner to the Elves. So, well, how would you feel about coming back to Lossarnach with me? As my wife?”

Gildinwen was suddenly wide awake, a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Oh Gil! You idiot! Didn’t see this coming, did you?

He looked up at her, uncertainty warring with excitement in his face. “It’s a good offer.”

It was, especially for someone like her, with no family or money.

Meeting his frank and hopeful gaze she felt like the lowest and meanest creature alive. She took a deep breath, better to get it over with quickly. “You do me a great honour, my lord. Your offer is generous beyond words.” She paused.

“But?” Disappointment already clouded the blue eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she shook her head mournfully, “It would not be fair to give my hand where my heart does not follow.”

“Ah.” He glanced down at his feet, “I thought it might be that.” He shrugged and pulled a rueful face, getting to his feet. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

He stooped to pick up the bottle, then looked down at her, his eyes hardening briefly, his quiet voice edged with gall, “He won’t marry you, you know. You’d have been better to stick to your own kind.” Then he turned on his heel and walked swiftly away.

Gildinwen sat wilting miserably on her seat. Inside she felt horrible. What a fool she had been to come out here in the first place, she thought angrily. 

“He seemed to take that rather well.”

She leapt from her stool with a start as Elrond stepped from the shadows, pushing back his Elven cloak. 

“How long have you been there?” she demanded, incredulity and guilt making her voice harsh.

“Long enough.” He leaned insolently against a nearby tentpole, arms folded, a scowl marring his beautiful face. “Sounded like a good offer, maybe you should have accepted?”

Gil felt a familiar hot feeling behind her eyes. No! She set her jaw. I will not!

“I will not marry where I do not love, my lord.”

“Maybe love would have grown between you? Would not your father have approved of him?”

“Possibly, but he was a notoriously bad judge of men.” She raised her head defiantly, “I make my own choice. It is one of the few advantages to having no living relatives. Maybe it is within the power of a mighty Elf-Lord to choose where his heart goes, but it is beyond that of a mere mortal woman.”

With three strides of his long limbs, he crossed the clearing. He looked down at her face, his features hard. “Perhaps you think to make a better match?”

She met his gaze, her eyes flashing. “No, my lord.” Pride swelled her voice, “I have no such hopes.”

He plucked the arm of her dress, gripping the fine silk of the dress between his fingers. “Does my gift not please you?”

“ _Your_ gift?” Gildinwen felt a seeth of conflicting feelings. He was very close. “Yes,” she whispered, “It is beautiful.”

“I did not expect to see you wear it to dance with another!”

 “I did not realise the gift was from you.” Her voice was tight with emotion, “Nor that there was a price attached to it.”

He grabbed her by the upper arms, his grip tight, and pulled her against him. She trembled, unable to breath. His eyes were unreadable, and his lips set. She felt a strong hand on the back of her head, taking hold of her hair. His mouth softened a fraction, and he bent his head…

“My Lord!” Luinil’s voice was urgent.

Releasing her roughly, he whirled angrily towards the intrusion, “What?!” he roared.

Behind him, Gildinwen gasped for air, her mind and body confused and swirling. At a loss even to know what she was feeling, she turned and fled into the darkness.


	12. Choices of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Blindly, Gildinwen ran through the Men's camp, heedless of direction or  
onlookers, until she stumbled to a walk in the lee of a rough fall of black  
rock. Her chest heaved, and her face was wet. Angrily, she dashed the tears  
away with a shaking hand. Inside she felt as though her heart was crushing  
her. A violent storm of emotion raged through her. What just happened? What  
would have happened if they hadn't been interrupted? She trembled at the  
thought. But wasn't that what you wanted? Yes, gasped a part of her, weak  
with desire at the memory. No, cried another part, not like that, not...not  
without love. She struggled to make sense of it all. He had given her this  
beautiful gift, but had said nothing to her. He was certainly jealous of  
her dancing with Falcred, but what did that prove? Don't fool yourself,  
Gil, she thought bitterly, what's he going to see in you? A mighty Elf-  
Lord, wise among the Firstborn, who has seen the ages come and go? A  
passing fancy at best. I don't care, she wailed inwardly, knowing in her  
heart that she was powerless before him. That she would trample her pride  
underfoot, torment and humiliate herself just for one look, a kiss, any  
tiny scrap of affection.

Shivering she looked about her, the night was cold and she had left her  
cloak behind. She had no idea where she was. Rubbing her arms, she walked  
on, still dazed. A few campfires flickered nearby. Suddenly, she was nearly  
bowled over by a small figure, who rushed out of the darkness and grabbed  
hold of her legs.

"Gil! Gil!" Confusion soon turned to an amazed smile, when she saw who it  
was.

"Dalbur!" Matilda's voice scolding voice approached. "What have I told you  
about running off?"

Gildinwen bent down to hug the child. His tight arms about her neck felt so  
good.

His mother hurried up, a happy grin of recognition spreading over her face.

"Gil!"

"Hello Matilda," she stood up, unbidden a smile came to her.

The other woman looked about. "Are you alone?"

"Yes." Gil looked a little sheepish.

Matilda examined her more closely, taking in the fine dress, the lack of  
warm clothing and the tear-stained face. She nodded knowingly, "A lover's  
quarrel is it?"

"Something like that."

"Come and sit by the fire for a while, have some tea, it'll make you feel  
better."

Gildinwen sipped the hot tea, a borrowed blanket draped about her  
shoulders. Matilda chattered with news and gossip, allowing her guest to  
sit quietly. Dalbur played merrily around them.

"Daruth has met a really lovely girl." She smiled happily, "That's where he  
is now." She leaned forward conspiratorially, "I think they'll wed soon."

The homely atmosphere comforted Gildinwen and she started to relax, amused  
by Matilda's anecdotes, and laughing fondly at Dalbur's antics.

In the middle of a game, he abruptly came to a halt, gazing up past  
Gildinwen with an earnest face.

"Are you an Elf?"

"I am." Elrond's deep voice set up a resonance in Gil's heart.

Dalbur's voice was awestruck. "Do you know Eärendil?"

Elrond walked forward into the firelight, his Elven cloak shimmering. He  
had girt on his sword, and had her wrap draped over one arm. He looked down  
kindly at the child, "Yes, indeed, EÃ¤rendil was my father."

The boy's eyes stretched wide in his face, "Did you sail in his ship, in  
the Vingilot?"

Elrond shook his head, "No, alas. He departed over the Sea when I was still  
a young child."

"Oh." Disappointment curled the lad's mouth downwards, then he looked up.  
"Have you come to take Gil home?"

"Yes, I have."

"Good." Dalbur nodded his head solemnly, "It's not safe to be walking about  
by oneself at night-time."

Everyone laughed. Gildinwen stood up and folding Matilda's blanket, walked  
over to return it to her friend.

"Thank you." She pressed the older woman's hand.

"Don't mention it, lass." She leaned forward with a knowing whisper, "I  
should think everything will be alright now," she motioned with her eyes in  
the Elf-Lord's direction.

Gildinwen bent to hug Dalbur, and then crossed to where Elrond held her  
cloak ready for her. He laid it gently across her shoulders, his touch  
soft, and they walked together into the night.

Once they were out of sight and earshot of the others, he turned and took  
her hand. His voice was low and urgent. "We must make haste, yet go  
quietly. There has been an incursion by the enemy. We know not yet how  
many, or what they seek, but I will not rest easy till you are safely back  
at the camp."

She nodded, and wrapping her cloak about her, followed him as quietly as  
she could. Inside her mind raced, and her heart beat fast. He came for me!

About halfway back, crossing a broken and dry riverbed, Elrond stopped, and  
held up his hand. She froze, her ears straining but could hear nothing. He  
lowered his hand and they walked on. The sound of the first arrow came but  
a fraction of a second before she felt the wind of its path against her  
cheek. She did not hear the second, but felt its bite burn down her left  
forearm. She thrust a hand over her mouth to stifle the cry, her eyes large  
with fright.

"Quickly!" Elrond breathed, pulling her into the dark lee of the bank. He  
lifted his Elven cloak and she ducked in to shelter beneath the concealing  
folds. She needed no instruction to remain silent and unmoving. Above the  
other bank two dark creatures slunk, their long arms and crooked backs  
marking them out as Orcs.

"Well, where are they?" hissed one.

"They were right here. I hit the girl, I tell you."

"You?! That was my arrow."

"Hssshh! What's that?"

The sound of horses and men's voices came in on the breeze.

"Come on, let's get out of here." They skulked off, back the way they had  
come.

Gildinwen relaxed slightly. Elrond remained motionless. She was very aware  
of his strong arm about her shoulder, the warmth of his body close to hers,  
and his soft breath in her hair. She could not have said how long they  
waited, but after a long while she felt his hand leave the hilt of his  
sword, and his body turn towards hers. Both his arms encircled her, and  
briefly held her to him, his lips brushing the top of her head. A tide of  
liquid fire swept through her, and she quivered from head to foot. He  
stepped back, his face hidden in the darkness, and slid his hands across  
her shoulders, and down to take her hands.

He stopped short, and lifted a glistening hand. "You're bleeding."

"It's just a graze."

He ran his long fingers gently over the wound. "Even so, it may be  
poisoned. Let us hurry back. I will tend it for you."

"There." Elrond finished tying up the neat dressing and laid a gentle hand  
on her bandaged arm. His tent was comfortably appointed without being  
luxurious, a thick carpet covered the floor, the raised sleeping couch  
where they sat was strewn with soft blankets, and on a chest in the corner  
a lamp spilled its gentle light.

The air was heavy with unspoken words, and when he reached to take her  
hands, Gildinwen felt both a rush of anticipation, and a strange peace. She  
looked up to match his direct gaze. Her dark eyes meeting his grey ones.

"I have been a fool," his voice was very intense. "Three times over  
tonight, I nearly lost you. Once to that upstart of a boy, once through my  
own jealous arrogance, and once..." the grey eyes closed briefly, and his  
hands tightened on hers. "Then these words would have remained unspoken  
forever." His face searched hers intently. "Who are you, woman? Where did  
you come from, that when I look in my heart I find you there?"

She looked into his face, the beauty of it making her heart leap, "Long has  
it been my deepest and most secret wish to hear such words from your lips."  
she whispered.

"Long did I try to hold my heart against you, but it was always a lost  
cause." A wondering smile crept over his face. "You took me by surprise the  
very first moment I saw you.

"I was at the side of Gil-galad, it was the first day of battle. The enemy  
was strong, many times we clashed but we could not push them back. The Men  
of the right flank started to weaken and lose heart. If they broke, it  
would go badly for us. Time and again, we sounded the advance but still  
they fell back. Then from their midst, a horse, red-gold against the  
darkness of the field. His rider just a girl, but mithril was bright on her  
brow, above her streamed the legendary banner of Amarnon, and her eyes  
shone with a light such as I had never seen. Straight at the foe she rode,  
and cut him down. Behind her rose a tide of men, and they charged that  
battlefield and drove the enemy before them like leaves before the storm.

"And when those Orcs came across the field, seasoned soldiers ran for their  
lives, but you would not leave your friends. Tall and proud you stood,  
looking them straight in the eye. I had no need of Gil-galad's command to  
lead the sally. I would have stood beside you that day against all the  
might of Mordor, though I had had but a single arrow."

Gildinwen felt a slow release of joy flow in her veins. Could it be true?

"Then the next day when I brought your horse, you smiled at me with such  
innocent happiness it was like the sunlight on my face. I wanted that  
light, that joy, that feeling of vitality, of life that you awoke in me,  
but I dared not welcome it. For many months I tried to deny you, fought to  
keep you out, and the more I wanted not to look at you, the more I could  
not help but see you. And day by day, with each smile, each soft word, with  
every look of love in your eye, I weakened a little more."

" Oh my lord." She reached up to touch the face that had long been in her  
dreams. "My love. Why did you not speak of this sooner?"

His face furrowed, and a dark shadow came over it. "I was afraid." he  
whispered. "Afraid to trust you, afraid to love you... afraid to lose you."  
He looked away. "Elves have not the resilience of the Secondborn, and  
already I have lost so many. My father Eärendil, I hardly remember, only my  
mother's sorrow as she waited for him. My mother," his voice broke, and the  
edges stabbed at Gildinwen's heart, "cast herself into the sea while I  
looked on. My step-father, whom, strange as it may seem, I loved, pursued  
the Silmaril until it sundered his mind and he sank into madness. My  
brother Elros, chose a mortal life, leaving me alone again in this world.  
All made their choice, and all took a path away from me."

Gildinwen's eyes filled with tears, "So much loneliness," she reached a  
hand to stroke his dark head. "Long has my heart has cried out to bring you  
comfort, my arms have yearned to hold you, and my lips to kiss away your  
pain."

"And yet you," he turned towards her, "have sorrows of your own to bear.  
Mother, father, brother, all gone, still your heart dares to love, and you  
have compassion to spare even for a broken creature of the enemy." His eyes  
lit, his smile returned, and the shadow vanished. He lifted her hand to his  
perfect lips. "And so now I choose. For three thousand years, I have  
guarded my heart carefully, but now I surrender it."

"Alas, my lord." Gildinwen's face was troubled, "I fear you have chosen  
poorly, for I am but a mortal woman, and my years on the Earth short in  
number. Already the best of my youth is past, and the signs of age will  
soon make their mark."

"Then I must bear that sorrow when I come to it," a delicate hand stroked  
her cheek, and his smile flashed, "for even a mighty Elf-Lord does not  
choose where his heart goes." The fingertips trailed down over her jaw to  
the soft skin of her neck, stealing her breath as they passed.

She lifted her hands to him. Tracing the curve of his brows, brushing back  
the long, dark hair, touching the delicate ears. Drawing her fingers along  
his jawline, and ever so gently past the beautiful mouth, down the slender  
neck to feel the pulse of life. A tightness in her chest told her she had  
forgotten her breath, and she released it with a gasp.

He took her face gently between his two hands, his eyes filled with love  
and his lips softened with desire. "Let me see if I can do better a second  
time," he whispered, tilting her head back slightly, and touching his mouth  
to hers.

Her pulse sounded loud as a drumbeat, her lips ached, and at the soft  
pressure of his, parted with a sigh.

His strong arms were welcoming, and his long hands were firm against her  
back. She felt herself mould against him as the fire rose, and yielding,  
she let him lower her back onto the couch. "And now," he whispered, running  
a fingertip along her collarbone, and bringing his mouth to hers again,  
"that's enough talk."

 

 

[If you’re over 18 and want to lift the curtain for a peek, I have published the love-scene (rated NC-17) separately under ‘The Standard Bearer – extra scenes, Scene 1: A Surprise Catch.]


	13. Most Precious Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

As the first soft light of morning filtered its way into the tent, and  
peeked under Gildinwen's eyelids, she stirred sleepily. She felt so  
deliciously warm and comfortable, completely at peace and more rested than  
she had been in months. 'I don't want to open my eyes' she thought, 'in  
case I find it was all just a wonderful dream.' The soft feel of warm skin  
against her back, and susurration of breath against her ear told her  
otherwise. 'No matter what else comes in my life, for this one moment, I  
would endure anything.'

"You are awake," he whispered, drawing the backs of his long fingers down  
her arm, and brushing her shoulder with his lips.

She stretched luxuriously, and rolled over to look up at him. His long hair  
fell like a dark curtain round his face and down over his matchless chest.  
His sculptured face, and radiant eyes smiled down at her. She drank in his  
beauty, the clear brow, the arch of eyebrows, the hard jawline, the ripe,  
sweet mouth, and felt her heart contract till the pain was almost physical.

He touched her face, smoothing away a few stray strands of hair. "You sleep  
so soundly. Where do you go to in your dreams?"

She smiled softly, "My dreams show me no better place than this."

He lowered his head and kissed her, softly, sweetly, and wrapping his  
strong, fine arms around her, sat up, drawing her with him. "This is our  
first morning, my love, no more precious day will ever dawn. I would it had  
been in a green and tranquil place, with the lull of running water, and the  
music of songbirds, instead of this dark land."

Gildinwen closed her eyes and leaned her head against his beautiful  
shoulder, "The birds sing for me, Elrond, and I hear the water."

Long did they sit, entwined, listening to that unsung song, their hearts  
and bodies speaking without the need for words. Her mind leapt and danced  
with the events of the night before, when he had opened his heart, and  
awakened her body. Within her a tangle of emotions wove themselves  
together. Her body thrilled with the echoes of remembered pleasure and her  
heart filled with feelings almost too great to be contained. She wanted to  
curl up here in his arms forever, safe and secure, and at the same time to  
wrap him in her love, strong and fierce, so that nothing would ever hurt  
him again. She looked at this love she felt within her, bright as a new-  
hewn gem, and saw that it was not a simple thing. Its facets blazed with  
many colours, both of light and darkness - friendship, tenderness, desire,  
joy, trust, comfort, shelter, passion, strength, pride, obsession, weakness  
and sacrifice.

 

 

Presently the morning sounds of the camp disturbed their idyll, and  
Gildinwen spoke softly, "I must rise, my lord, lest my presence here be  
fuel for mischievous tongues."

"Stay," he murmured, "I care not who knows it."

She smiled, "Foolish Elf. Idle gossip can penetrate where evil cannot, and  
the harm it does can be just as great."

Reluctantly, he released her, leaning back on the couch to watch her dress,  
before shrugging on his own tunic.

She attempted to use her fingers to bring some order to her passion-tumbled  
hair but it was useless.

"Let me," he smiled, picking up his comb and reseating himself on the bed.  
She nestled into the crook of his knee, admiring the smooth stretch of his  
limbs, the hard ankles and long feet. She felt him try to take the mithril  
band from her head, without success. "It truly does not come off," he  
marvelled.

She laughed lightly, "Certainly it does, else I should look like a  
scarecrow all the time." And she reached up her hands to remove it. Gently,  
he worked the knots and tangles from her hair, and as the comb wove its  
magic, she felt herself transformed under his hands as much as she had the  
night before. A tear of pure happiness escaped unnoticed, and made its way  
slowly over her radiant face. When he was finished, he carefully replaced  
the band, then lifted the soft mass of curls to gently run his lips along  
the back of her neck.

She sighed and stretched her body with pleasure. "Desist, my lord." she  
whispered with a smile, wriggling free, "Else I shall be here all day."

 

 

"Take this." He picked up his Elven cloak from its puddle on the floor and  
shook it out. "It was woven in Beleriand, and will enable you to come and  
go in secret, hidden from even Elven eyes."

She stroked the silky, shimmering fabric as he placed it round her  
shoulders. "It is beautiful."

He turned her towards him, and took her face between his flawless hands, "I  
expect you to use it often," His voice was grave, but his grey eyes danced  
with light, and a smile twitched his lips as he bent to kiss her. Then he  
folded her closely to him for a long moment, before releasing her and  
drawing the hood up over her head.

 

 

Walking back, Gildinwen was amazed how effective Elrond's cloak was.  
Providing she walked steadily and made no sudden movement, she just slid  
past notice, appearing as an unimportant shadow. Still, it was with relief  
that she reached the tent unremarked and slipped in through the doorway.

Galeria was tidying away the gowns from the night before, and looked up  
animatedly as she came in.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, "I wondered what had happened to you? You  
just disappeared after that dance." Her eyes sparkled with mischievousness.

'Dance?' thought Gildinwen, then with a tiny thrill of guilt she remembered  
Falcred.

The Elf came over to her as she divested herself of the cloak, and laid it,  
folded, on her cot. "Wait a minute! I recognise this," Galeria crowed,  
fingering the fine material, her eyes dancing, "Unless I'm very much  
mistaken, it belongs to my serious cousin." She looked over at her friend,  
an impish grin spreading over her face. "Well, that explains why your bed  
was not slept in!"

Gildinwen could not deny with her tongue what her face readily admitted,  
blushing furiously she covered her face with her hands. As she peered out  
between her fingers, however, something struck her as odd, and she lowered  
them.

Slowly a knowing smile spread over her own face, and she turned to the Elf,  
"Ah, but I see I'm not the only one whose bed is not slept in."

It was Galeria's turn to colour, "I could have made it up before you came  
in." she replied defensively.

"But I left the dresses on your bed, and you're only just putting them away  
now." Gildinwen laughed, "and besides, your face is just like mine was a  
moment ago."

"Alright, alright!" Galeria bounced down onto her cot. "I admit I did not  
pass the night here either."

"So, is the rest of the noble Glorfindel as lovely as his face?" teased  
Gildinwen, receiving only a pillow as answer.

Laughing, she hurried to wash, change her clothes and braid her hair, duty  
calling.

"Are you coming to get something to eat?" she asked Galeria.

"Oh, no," her friend groaned, "I am too tired to face all the banter." She  
flung herself back on her pallet, kicking off her shoes, "You go on, I  
shall stay here and get some rest."

 

 

As Gildinwen made her way through the camp, everything seemed somehow  
different. Underfoot the same dead black ground crunched and shifted, the  
air remained tainted with Orodruin's dark smoke, and the brooding citadel  
of Barad-dÃ»r still blotted out half the sky, but the feeling of oppression  
had gone and it seemed to her that light now shone even in this forsaken  
and blighted land. The slightest excuse would have sent her singing and  
dancing along the path.

Gil-galad's camp was a-bustle with noise and chatter, many folk sat and  
stood around the tables, talking and eating. Sailing gaily through the  
crowds, Gildinwen made her way over to where Galeria's brothers were  
seated.

"Morning!," she chirped, helping herself to some food.

"Galeria not with you?" asked Galdor, innocently.

"Um, no." Gildinwen hedged, "she's a bit tired this morning."

This provoked much laughter from the two elves, as well as others sitting  
at the table. "Strange that our friend Glorfindel is missing as well,"  
grinned the other brother. Gildinwen had to smile, but inside she was  
annoyed, were there no secrets in this place?

"Good morning." Elrond's deep voice sounded at her elbow, provoking a  
smattering of reciprocation from around the table.

"Good morning, my lord." She struggled to keep her voice even.

"I trust you slept well?"

"Yes, thank you. Very well indeed." Her face was straight but her eyes  
shone.

He looked round at the others as he seated himself. "Where is Glorfindel?"  
The outburst of hilarity that followed this query caused him to raise his  
eyebrows in question.

Gildinwen coughed, "There has been some speculation on that subject  
already." She lowered her voice, "Particularly since your cousin is not  
present either."

"Ah." He slid her a sideways glance from under lowered lids, then turned to  
speak to Gildor, while under the table he spanned her knee with his long  
fingers. As they finished eating Luinil appeared and summoned Gildinwen to  
Lord Gil-galad.

 

 

The Elf-Lord was standing at the far end of his pavilion, reading from a  
sheaf of papers when Gildinwen entered.

"Good morning, my lord." She bowed.

He looked up and nodded "Ah. Gildinwen." His manner was perfunctory, but  
not unkind. "I heard that you were injured last night. I trust it was not  
serious."

"No, my lord. Thank you. Were the intruders caught?"

"No." he shook his head. "Nor did we discover upon what purpose they were  
bent." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then his face cleared. "I have  
had a request from Lord Isildur for a healer to see his wife. She has  
stated a preference for a woman, would you attend her?"

"I should be happy to, my lord."

"Good."

He threw the documents down on the table, and fixed his gaze on her, his  
deep blue eyes serious. "Lord Elrond has spoken to me about you this  
morning." His voice was stern.

Gildinwen started, guarding herself quickly.

"What if I told you that I disapproved of this liaison, and that it has no  
place on this battlefield?"

She felt a great, empty pit open at her feet, and she faltered on the  
brink. A cold wind blew up, driving away all her earlier happiness.

She lifted her stricken eyes to meet his.

'No.' she pleaded silently, 'Don't ask this of me. Please, anything but  
this.'

His look remained implacable, boring into her very soul.

The weight of her oath was heavy on her. Sworn in faith and fealty, for all  
the house of Amarnon. To serve and obey.

'But Elrond!' Her very soul cried out, 'How can Iâ€¦.?' She couldn't even  
find the words.

So here comes the test. Here is the choice that is laid out. Break her  
word, to follow her heart, or set her feet on the bleak path of duty.

The balance swayed.

I love him. I can't change that. Nothing can change that.

That's right. That's right! Nothing can change that. Even if you can't be  
together for a time. This war can't last forever. He serves Lord Gil-galad  
as well, he is bound by the same oath.

The scales tipped.

The choice was made.

Her voice bereft, she bowed her head, "I cannot stop my heart from loving,  
my lord, but in all else I am yours to command."

For a long while there was silence, then Gil-galad spoke. "Be at peace."  
His voice was warm, and she looked up to see a slight smile about his noble  
face. "In truth I see no harm in it, but I had to be sure that you would  
put duty first if required."

Gildinwen reeled inwardly, as she mentally tried the ground once more  
beneath her feet.

"He was given the same test," the Elf-Lord nodded wisely, "and he chose as  
you did."

She breathed deeply, collecting herself, relief flooding her.

Gil-galad looked more thoughtful, "Indeed, I have often wished that he  
might find someone to ease his loneliness." He frowned slightly, "You  
should be aware, however, that his is not an easy road, and you will  
require great strength if you are to accompany him on it, even though, as a  
mortal, you can go only a short way."

"He has spoken to me a little of his sorrows, my lord."

"That is good, I hope he will find them less of a burden through the  
sharing."

"Did his mother really try to kill herself in front of him?"

"Yes, indeed. He was little more than a child, and his brother but a babe  
in arms. Maglor pursued her for the Silmaril, but she would not surrender  
it to him, nor would she be parted from it - not even to save her  
children." He looked sorrowful. "She fixed it upon her breast, and  
abandoning her sons to the enemy, flung herself into the sea." He shook his  
proud head slowly, "It is a terrible thing, when the desire for a thing of  
beauty, even one as compelling as a Silmaril, becomes so all-consuming that  
it eclipses all else, blotting out love, honour and reason."

"But he found happiness with his step-father?"

"Yes, for a time. Maglor was so racked with guilt over Elwing's death that  
he took the boys to raise. He protected and cherished them, but his brother  
continually tormented him with the oath that he had sworn to recover the  
Silmarils. Finally he gave in, but the jewel brought him only pain and  
madness."

 

 

Walking down to the Men's camp, Gildinwen found her earlier high spirits  
return with vigour. The happiness briefly snatched away was now hers again,  
and the renewed buoyancy of her heart lightened her feet, lifted her chin  
and lit her face.

The proximity of Isildur's tent proved to be a very busy place indeed.  
Tables had been set up outside and they were jammed with soldiers and  
servants, eating and talking. She noticed Brith sitting near the entrance,  
his hawk-like eyes missing nothing, and as she was shown inside, she  
overheard him joke to his companions. "That wallflower's positively  
blooming, I think someone must have been watering it!" and the soldiers'  
laughter that followed made her growl with annoyance.

The interior of Isildur's pavilion was divided into two parts by a heavy  
curtain. In the first, rough matting covered the floor, and chairs were set  
around a table covered with lists and reports. In one corner, beside a low  
pallet for his squire, a wooden tree held the Lord's armour, and his  
weapons were laid, clean and ready. Isildur himself sat at the table, his  
hair was tousled, his wrinkled linen shirt unbuttoned. He looked tired and  
his face was drawn, the powerful body, marked by many silver scars, slumped  
dejectedly in the chair.

"My Lord," the squire's voice was diffident, "The Lady Gildinwen has  
arrived."

Isildur ran a slow hand through his wayward hair, "Thank you, Ohtar. You  
may go."

Gildinwen took a seat opposite him. "You look tired, my lord. Would you  
like me to make you up a tonic."

He looked up at her, a wry smile on his sensual lips. "Oh, there's no  
medicine for what ails me." He sighed.

"It is your wife?"

He nodded.

"It is not unusual for a woman to not be herself for a time, following the  
birth of a child."

"I know that!" he snapped, "This is my fourth son." He sighed again, "But  
before she has always come out of it quickly. This time," he made a gesture  
of helplessness, "I have tried everything. Nothing I do or say pleases her.  
Even the birth gifts I have given her, brought no light to her eye."

"I will do what I can to help, my lord."

"My thanks to you."

 

 

The interior chamber was softly lit with lamps, the walls heavy with  
embroidered hangings and rugs soft underfoot. The room was in disorder, and  
two waiting women were busy packing for the return journey. All around  
finely carved chests lay open, gorgeous clothing was draped over chairs,  
jewellery and ornaments piled haphazardly on the table. At the far end, the  
Lady Varadil languished on a curtained bed. She looked round dispiritedly  
as Gildinwen entered, and motioned peremptorily for the servants to leave.

"My lady." Gildinwen bowed formally, before taking a chair near the bed.

"So," the Lady Varadil's voice was softly sneering, "You're the healer that  
my husband wants me to see." She sat up with a tired sigh. "No doubt you'll  
tell me that this is all perfectly natural following a birth, and give me  
some vile-tasting tea to try and lighten my mood."

Gildinwen smiled a little ruefully, "That is more or less what I came here  
expecting to do, but it would seem that your trouble is deeper."

"Deeper, yes. And older." She rose from the bed and wandered aimlessly  
around the tent, idly picking up items and tossing them down. When she  
reached the table, she lifted her crown, heavy with diamonds and pearls,  
from among the glittering hoard. "Pretty isn't it?" she turned it idly in  
her hands so that it caught the light of the lamps. "Once it was all I  
wanted. To be a queen, the highest and most envied woman in the land. Can  
you imagine what it is like? To be loved and adored by a powerful prince,  
to have him bring you gold and jewels, anything your heart could desire?"  
She looked critically over Gildinwen's work-worn clothing, and hastily  
braided hair, the simple silver band her only ornament, "Well," she  
answered herself with a touch of scorn, "perhaps not. I thought it worth  
any price." She threw the jewelled chaplet back onto the table with a  
clatter, "What a foolish girl I was."

"But surely you have many things in your life to bring you joy, my lady.  
You have four healthy children, a husband who loves you dearly. There are  
always regrets when a choice is made, there are two sides to the balance,  
and one cannot help but wonder what lies down the unchosen path. But the  
turning is passed, and the steps cannot be retraced."

Lady Varadil sank into a nearby chair, and looked at Gildinwen, a reluctant  
acceptance in her eyes. "Yes, I know you are right." She gave a theatrical  
sigh, "Very well, I'll drink the tea, leave the herbs with my maids, they  
know well enough the preparing of it." She waved her hand crossly, "Now go,  
let me be in peace."

 

 

Isildur was more himself when Gildinwen emerged from seeing his wife,  
washed and dressed, he was seated at the table attending to the business of  
the day. On seeing her, he rose and drew her into a corner that they might  
speak without being overheard.

"Well?" his face was intense.

"She has a melancholy humour, my lord, I have prescribed some tea which  
should help."

He looked sceptical.

"I might also suggest a change of surroundings."

His face assumed a thoughtful look, "She is to return to Minas Ithil  
tomorrow with the other ladies, but AnÃ rion tells me that the city has  
suffered much damage."

"Perhaps somewhere else then?"

He pursed his lips, "She just recently left Rivendell as it was too quiet."  
His eyes lit up, "I shall send her to AnnÃºminas, to my father's city.  
Perhaps the air will lift her spirits."

"I am sure it will help her, my lord."

 

 

As she made her way back through the Men's camp she suddenly found herself  
confronted by Lord Brithiar. Remembering his earlier rudeness, she made to  
step past him without speaking.

"No, wait!" he caught at her arm. "Please." A slight uncertainty  
overshadowed his habitual arrogance. "I'm sorry about my remark earlier, it  
was rude and foolish."

She replied stiffly. "Very well, I accept your apology."

"You have been to see the Lady Varadil?"

Gildinwen looked at him suspiciously.

"What's wrong with her? Is she ill?" A tortured look shadowed his eyes, and  
his voice strangled in his throat, "Surely she cannot be with child again  
already?"

"Forgive me, my lord, I cannot discuss these matters with you."

"Please!" his grip on her arm increased, and his eyes bored into hers, "I  
beg you. At least tell me if she is alright."

Gildinwen felt a shaft of pity pierce her resolve. "It is my belief that  
she will be, my lord."

"Thank you." His composure returned, he released her arm, and melted away  
between the tents.

 

 

Author's deranged babble: Before any purists rush to email me, I know that  
some of what I've said here about Elrond's childhood may be different from  
that in Unfinished Tales, or the Professor's letters. I have used only Lord  
of the Rings and the Silmarillion as the basis for the story.

This chapter took the longest to write so far. Not just because it is the  
longest, but because I found the scene with Gil-galad particularly  
difficult, but after many, many rewrites I'm finally satisfied with it.


	14. The Muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Daybreak the next morning found Gildinwen and Elrond, along with many  
others, gathered together outside Gil-galad's pavilion to hear the orders  
for battle. A huge map had been hung up, and at a table in front of it  
chairs had been set out for Gil-galad and Erendil. The table was covered  
with a fine cloth, and upon it were placed the battle helms of the two  
kings - Man and Elf, and beside them their weapons. The great spear Aeglos,  
and the sword Narsil. Overhead, the battle standards of both houses stood  
proud to the wind, Elven trumpeters and great war drums stood by, silent  
and ready. Círdan was at the right hand of Lord Gil-galad, while Isildur  
and Anárion stood behind their father. Less than an hour before they had  
said their farewells as the wives began their journey home, but now all  
thoughts were turned to the battle at hand. Every Man and Elf present was  
dressed for war, armour shining, weapons sharp, and tunics bright with  
battle colours.

"My lords." Gil-galad stood to face the crowd, and his deep voice reached  
every corner of the packed company. "This morning we begin preparation for  
the Siege of Barad-dûr. We cannot attack and take the Lord Sauron in his  
stronghold, so we must force him from it. He can hold out long, but not  
forever. Nothing shall be allowed into that Citadel, and nothing shall pass  
out."

He pointed to the map.

"Mount Orodruin. Less than ten leagues from the western gate of Barad-dûr.  
The seat of the Dark Lord's power. In the cracks of fire at the summit of  
this mountain he forged the Ruling Ring with which he holds sway, and it is  
here that its power is greatest. We can be sure that he will attempt to  
reach it. He must not do so."

He looked round slowly, and with great gravity. "At all costs, Sauron must  
be kept from Orodruin." He turned back to the map. "There are two great  
gates to the Black Tower, one to the North, and the other facing West. From  
the Western gate issues the road that leads to Orodruin. For almost a  
league on either side, it is protected by great pits filled with fire and  
smoke. The North gate meets the road from the Isenmouthe. Barad-dûr must  
be surrounded on all sides by our forces. They must be vigilant and  
impenetrable. The gates and the roads in particular must be watched. Lord  
Elendil, and his son Isildur will command the army to guard the North and  
East. I, with Anárion, will hold the West and South."

As he spoke their names, each of the sons of Elendil stepped forward and  
bowed to the assembly.

"Círdan will be my second-in-command."

The tall Elf lifted his head proudly, his white hair gleaming against the  
colours of Gil-galad's house.

"Defences must be constructed to protect our soldiers against bombardments  
from the walls and towers of the fortress. For the task of undertaking  
these siegeworks, I have appointed Farin, son of Thrain, from the land of  
Moria."

He stretched out his hand, and from between the tall Elven warriors a  
sturdy dwarf strode forth. His knotted black beard was streaked with grey,  
and his marvellously crafted armour looked as though is was grown on. A  
great shield was slung from his shoulder, a heavy leather apron covered his  
thighs, and from his belt hung both a great, sharp axe and a heavy hammer.  
He looked about himself proudly, before giving a curt bow and moving to  
stand beside Círdan.

"Master Farin tells me," continued Gil-galad, "that although the ground  
does not easily lend itself to digging, there are many natural features  
that can be utilised for defences, and within a matter of weeks he and his  
artificers can create a suitable network of mines and trenches." He turned  
to the dwarf, "The supplies of tools and building materials that you have  
requested are on their way as we speak."

The sturdy miner again silently nodded his acknowledgement.

"The dwarves and the men assigned to help them will need protection during  
the building of the earthworks. This task will be undertaken by the Elven  
archers, who will be under the command of my Herald, the Lord Elrond."

Master Elrond stepped up to take his place, and Gildinwen's heart filled  
with pride and joy to see him. His burnished armour shone, his dark hair  
and blue cloak snapped in the wind. Across his back were slung a great bow  
and a quiver of golden arrows, at his side his long blade hung ready. His  
body spoke of power, his limbs of speed, his brow of wisdom and his eyes,  
catching hers for a fleeting moment, of love.

"Most of the horses will be sent away. We cannot fodder them here, and the  
terrain is too rough. Only one contingent of Elven cavalry will remain,  
besides those mounts required for messengers. Glofindel will be my Master  
of Horse."

The lithe golden-haired Elf leapt forward to stand with the others, his  
slender limbs, and graceful body making light of his armour and weapons.

"The Lady Galeria will have the setting up of a hospital, and the care of  
the wounded."

She bowed shyly from the sidelines.

"Gildor will be the Master of Arms, responsible for the supply and  
maintenance of weapons. Enemy archers will be a great danger, the soldiers  
must carry shields at all times. To Galdor I give the running of the camp,  
to supply it and keep it secure." The two brothers came forward as one,  
their young faces flush with pride, bowing to their lord and the assembled  
company.

"And to the Lady Gildinwen, who carries the Banner of Amarnon," The Elf-  
Lord turned to her with a hint of an indulgent smile, and her eyes widened  
in surprise. "Trusted by both Man and Elf, I give charge of the  
intelligences. Let all reports and communications of the enemy come to  
her."

Feeling as though her heart would burst with pride, she bowed deeply to her  
Liege, and stood forward to be counted with the Company of Gil-galad.

"And now, my Lords!" cried Gil-galad, lifting his arms and casting his  
proud gaze upon the enraptured assembly, "My warriors, my people! Let each  
go to his appointed task, and in the long, dark days to come, let us fight  
as brothers. Elves, Men and Dwarves, united against the Shadow."

Elendil rose to stand beside the Elf-Lord, and together they lifted their  
helms and placed them upon their heads. Two hands reached for the legendary  
weapons, and together they raised them defiantly, Aeglos gleaming eagerly,  
while the light of the sun and the moon shone from the blade of Narsil.

"To Battle and Victory!" they cried. The trumpets sounded, the drums  
thundered, and as one the company raised their weapons, while from every  
throat assembled, came the warcry of their own house.

"Elbereth! Gilthoniel!" chorused the Elvish voices, save for the Lord of  
Rivendell, whose cry was, "Imaladris!"

"Baruk Khazâd!" roared the dwarf Farin.

"Númenor!" shouted the Men, "Annúminas!"

"Amarnon! Faithful to the Last!" Gildinwen sang out clear and strong, the  
last voice of her house.

The next few weeks were intensely busy. The Dwarf Farin laboured to prepare  
the defences. A small army of miners and sappers excavated and burrowed,  
digging down and piling up, creating the beginnings of a vast network of  
interlinked trenches and tunnels. Complete with bastions, and ramparts,  
providing points from which to attack the enemy as well as lodgements and  
defensive works. Living and sleeping quarters. Armouries and storehouses.  
Cookshops and barracks. The work was difficult at first as they were  
obliged to crawl along under cover across the sharp rock and through the  
black slag. It was also dangerous, despite the constant vigilance of Lord  
Elrond's archers and sharpshooters. Their keen eyes were alert to any  
movement on the enemy's battlements, their duty to prevent the enemy bowmen  
from even taking aim, but still losses could not be prevented. Sauron's  
forces had other, more terrible weapons in their arsenal, than bowmen.  
Rocks, fire and missiles would fly from the walls and towers, launched by  
great catapults, to land shattering and scorching among the workers. Nor  
did the black gates stay closed. Sorties were sent out, fearful companies  
of Orcs and Men sallied forth only to meet their deaths at the hands of  
Anárion's soldiers, Glorfindel's horsemen and Elrond's archers. The Dark  
Lord himself was not idle. Behind them, Mount Orodruin rumbled into life.  
The thin, sooty air to which they had become accustomed was now filled with  
a rain of heavy ash. Thick and choking, it clogged the eyes, filled the  
mouth and hindered the feet.

Despite this the investment grew daily, a shackle about the feet of the  
Lord Sauron. This subterranean city, hewn and hammered from the black rock,  
dwarfed beneath the shadow of the great and terrible Fortress of Barad-dûr,  
once ready, would be their home for as long as it took to finish the  
dreadful business.

Gildinwen had much to do with her new duties. She found herself everywhere.  
From the very outskirts of the camp, dispatching scouts and surveyors to  
reconnoitre the land and the enemy defences. To the great tables under the  
lightest of awnings where the maps were drawn up, carefully detailing every  
land feature, every new addition to the defences, noting the enemy's  
positions as well as his lines of sight and of fire. Informing and readying  
Gil-galad's messengers, interrogating prisoners in the Men's camp, and  
debriefing spies under cover of darkness. Mountains of reports and  
documents were collected, translated and collated, until she felt herself  
at the centre of a great web of information, ready at any time to provide  
the information and answers needed by Elendil and Gil-galad in order to  
plan their campaign.

She felt more alive and complete than at any time in her life. Even saying  
goodbye to Loreglin was not as difficult as she had feared. He had been so  
miserable on the dusty plateau that it was a relief to know he would soon  
be on grass again.

"Be good." She whispered to him, "I'll come for you when I can."

Despite the dead and evil land about her, life pulsed heady in her veins.  
During the day she was happy and fulfilled, cheerfully going about her  
tasks. At night she would return alone to her tent, usually solitary now  
since Galeria was busy with the new hospital. Rarely would she sleep there  
though, rather she would cloak herself with obscurity and walk silently  
through the camp to a more welcoming bed.

Day had long faded and she was just thinking of extinguishing the lamps and  
leaving the rest of the work till the morrow, when coughing at the flap  
announced a visitor. She looked up to see a tall man unwinding a filthy  
cloth from around his head to reveal a bright smile.

"My Lord Anárion," she rose to greet him, "You are welcome."

"Thank you," he took off his cloak and dropped its ash-soiled folds to the  
ground. "Ugh!" he wiped his face, "What a dreadful place this is."

"Indeed it is, my lord," she smiled, "Please, won't you be seated?"

He settled himself into the proffered chair.

"Some wine?" she lifted a flask and goblets from a table behind her.

"Yes, please!" he grinned, "Get the taste of this foul dust out of my  
mouth."

She poured for both of them, before passing his over, and reseating  
herself.

He took a deep draught. "Ah, much better."

"So," she sat back in her chair, cradling her goblet, "What can I do for  
you, my lord."

"Well," he sat forward to lean his elbows on the table, "I have a small  
problem, and Isildur suggested that you might be the person to help me with  
it."

Gildinwen's mind boggled, but she kept her face neutral, and motioned to  
him to continue.

"It's a small someone actually. His name is Mardil, and he's a page in my  
retinue." He looked up at her, "You know how these things are, well born  
boys are sent to the household of another lord when they're eight or nine  
years old to serve a few years as page, and then onto squire before  
achieving their own knighthood."

Gildinwen nodded.

"Well, Mardil is a great lad, helpful, hardworking and intelligent, but he  
is finding life here very tough."

She waited.

"He has a small physical defect. A twisted foot. The terrain here is so  
treacherous, and the situation so dangerous, that I fear for his life  
everyday." He reached for the flask, and helped himself to some more wine.  
"I cannot send him home. His father is a very influential member of my  
father's court, and besides which the boy does not deserve such a  
dishonour." He looked up at her, his blue gaze open and direct. "I had  
hoped that you might accept him into your service. That way he would be out  
of the direct conflict, but still be with the company."

Gildinwen pursed her lips thoughtfully, "It is true that I have no page,  
and such a lad would be most helpful." She frowned slightly, "But how would  
he feel, coming from the household of a Prince of the land to serve a  
nobody like me?"

AnÃ rion chuckled loudly, "You do yourself a great dis-service to call  
yourself a nobody, my Lady of Amarnon. You have become like a legend among  
my soldiers. Since your banner appeared on the battlefield, we have had  
only victories. Besides, you are a handpicked member of Lord Gil-galad's  
company. I doubt there is any other on this battlefield who could claim  
both honours, save perhaps the mighty Elf-Lord himself.

"You flatter me, my lord," she laughed, then nodded, "I will be pleased to  
accept the young master Mardil, provided he is happy to come."

"Excellent!" he drained his wine, and pushing his chair back, rose to his  
feet, "I will arrange for him to join you."

It was very late, the hour of midnight well past, when Gildinwen finally  
made her nightly walk. Usually she would arrive first, and wrap herself in  
the warm coverlets to sleep, sometimes to be roused later by his soft voice  
and gentle touch. At other times she would awake in the morning to find he  
had curled himself silently about her while she slept. This night Elrond  
was already waiting for her. Slipping noiselessly through the entrance, his  
tent was in silence. The lamp had burned very low, leaving just enough  
light to see him at rest upon the couch. His feet were bare, his fine  
undertunic unfastened, and his hair loose. His eyes were open but  
unfocused, one long hand hanging down, his face peaceful. On tiptoe, she  
moved toward him very slowly. As she came into his line of sight, a soft  
smile gradually came over his face, and he whispered, "Ah, my love. Are you  
real, or am I only dreaming?"

"Definitely dreaming, my lord," she murmured, letting the cloak fall from  
her shoulders.

"What is it like?" she whispered afterwards, as they lay together  
contentedly. "Dreaming while awake?"

"Do not humans do it also?"

"Well, we daydream." She chuckled softly , "Which is really thinking about  
things you would rather be doing as opposed to the task at hand."

"For instance?"

"Thinking about you, instead of concentrating on reading a message."

"I see."

She indolently scribed a pattern on his chest with her fingers. "Do you  
never think about me, instead of what you are supposed to be doing?"

"Certainly not." He tried in vain to suppress a smile, "However, I do think  
about you while still attending to my duties."

"Oh you Elf!" she poked him gently. "You always have to be so perfect!"

"Ah! But is that not one of the things you like about me so much?"

Anticipating the second poke he caught her hand, defusing it with a kiss on  
the wrist before trapping against his chest. "It is rather like listening  
to a good storyteller, one who brings the ballad to life in front of your  
eyes, except that it is your story, and you may have in it whatever you  
desire. Whether it be what you see, what you remember or just what you  
wish."

"It sounds a little like just being on the very edge of sleep, a blending  
of thought and dream."

"Dreaming is not like that for you?"

She smiled, heavy-eyed, "Oh no. We have no control over our dreams, we  
cannot say where we will go, or what we will see. Sometimes it is a lovely  
adventure, but most of the time it is just somewhat confusing."

"I have heard that your dreams can also be premonitions, showing the future  
to come."

She thought for a while, "That may be true, although I think it more likely  
that the dream reveals hidden longings or secret fears, particularly those  
one is trying to hide from oneself . We do not dream the whole time we  
sleep though, a large part of the time we are in a deep slumber." She laid  
her head on his chest, the steady heartbeat comforting.

He stroked her hair, "It warms my heart to watch you sleeping. So trusting,  
so abandoned, so at peace, just like a little child. We sleep when we are  
very young but I cannot remember it."

"I do not know that it is possible to describe. It is not something that  
you are conscious of while it takes place, only when you wake up." She  
yawned. "It is a warm, soft, dark, endless place, that you can only  
experience by the memory of it, never while you are there."

He mused, "How like us, our dreaming is. We Elves must create a thing of  
beauty, perfect, delightful, and carefully made to order, while you humans  
will throw yourselves unheeding into the realms of sleep, tossed on the  
wild storm of night to whatever shore, good or bad, that it takes you to."

She murmured a drowsy agreement.

He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arms about her. "Good night, my  
little Sleeper. I will watch over you."

She burrowed deeper into his warmth, "Good night, my beautiful Dreamer."


	15. The Siege of Barad-dur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, this whole business of second wives is a total

“My lady?” The voice was respectful, without being timid; neither loud nor  
quiet. Gildinwen looked up from her final preparations to see a young lad  
at the entrance to the tent. His straight dark hair slightly too long, his  
face thin and drawn, the black eyes much older than his person. He was  
cloaked, and clad in a worn leather jerkin. A bedroll hung from one  
shoulder, a knife was at his belt and stout shield slung over his back. She  
made a particular point of not looking at his feet.

“Master Mardil?”

He bowed an acknowledgment.

“You are welcome.” She bowed slightly in return. “Have you everything with  
you? We move out within the hour.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She threw her old cloak over her light armour, hefted up her own bundle,  
heavy enough despite containing only a few clothes and some blankets, and  
picked up her unwieldy wooden shield. She found this device most  
cumbersome, but knew that it would have to become her constant companion.  
Farin’s men had worked ceaselessly to provide cover for the besieging  
troops, but the defenders watched with sleepless eyes to exploit any  
momentary weakness. Deanor’s much-used sword was at her side, and a long  
knife tucked into her belt.

“Then let us go.” She pulled up her hood, and wound her scarf about her  
face as they stepped out of the tent into the dismal, choking morning.

It would be a dangerous day. Although the vanguard held the route to the  
new camp, no-one expected the Lord Sauron to allow them to occupy it  
without a fight.

Two great columns were formed up on the road, side-by-side, two mighty arms  
of war ready to encircle the Dark Lord. Elendil and Isildur’s great knights  
and proud men-at-arms for the North and East, the Elven warriors and  
Anárion’s fierce soldiers for the West and South. A ring of steel and  
courage with which to cut him off, to strangle him, isolate him and finally  
to force him from his impenetrable citadel.

Spirits were high, and an air of anticipation in the air. Gildinwen took  
her place behind Lord Gil-galad, the standard of her father’s house in her  
hand. The Elf-Lord was proud and fearsome in his battle armour, his helm  
shining and deadly spear at the ready. Tall he stood at the head of his  
army, and high were his banners lifted that all might see them and follow.

The trumpets sounded, and at the shouts of the sergeants, a cry rose from  
the company, and the hosts rumbled into motion. Glorfindel’s guard of horse  
provided outriders, and rode on the flanks, alert, quick and ready to give  
aid where ever they might be needed. Elrond’s archers held the high ground  
along the route of the march, their golden arrows a glinting beacon of  
comfort in the murky light. The tramp of ten thousand feet was loud in the  
ear, and the bitter taste of ash acrid in the mouth. The dust was terrible,  
even here at the head of the column, Gildinwen could not imagine the  
foulness which must be endured by those soldiers in the rearguard. Beside  
her, Mardil was striding out bravely, his limp noticeable but not  
pronounced, his face set in old lines of pain.

She watched with silent dread as their destination drew nearer, stride by  
stride. The Dark Tower loomed menacingly in the sky already, and they were  
still several miles away. She knew exactly how many feet the awful walls  
measured, and every detail of the wicked defences and crenellations. She  
had studied all the maps and reports, there should be no surprises for her.  
But knowing that the Fortress was almost one mile across, and that the  
curtain walls rose hundreds of sheer feet into the air, surrounded by a  
dreadful pit filled with fire and smoke, was a far cry from being in the  
shadow of that great and terrible fastness. And yet, even a few short  
months ago she could never have envisioned such a hellish place as this  
plain of nightmares.

‘It is surprising how much horror we can stand’, she thought, ‘providing it  
is added to but a little at a time.’ Then her heart felt warm as she  
thought of Elrond, and she knew that strength came also from love, fierce,  
bright and strong. Deep rooted and untaintable.

Underfoot the ground became thick with ash, and Mardil stumbled beside her.  
She caught herself just in time from reaching out to him, knowing such an  
action would cause him shame here in the ranks of the soldiers.

For many hours they trudged onward, their dreadful destination growing ever  
larger, the sky ever darker. The road grew broader, and the air hot and  
stinking. Gildinwen knew that it would not be far now to where, about a  
league from the terrible Western gate, the road became in effect a causeway  
as great chasms opened up on either side, isolating it from the surrounding  
land. The armies would have to separate at this point, with Elendil and  
Isildur going North of the road, while Gil-galad and Anárion went south. It  
was here that attack was most likely. Barricades had been erected across  
both the roads that issued from Sauron’s fortress, but they would not hold  
his forces for long. Hopefully just enough to allow the armies to take  
cover. Once inside their new defences the besiegers would be very difficult  
to root out.

Still the brooding Tower grew in their sight, and now they could begin to  
make out details through the grimy air. Towering, massive walls of slick  
black stone. Smooth and impenetrable, rising seamless from the living rock.  
A fortress of stone, a fortress of iron, built with the sheer power of  
evil. Crenellations of steel crowned the tallest towers, scraping the sky  
with their vicious points. Deep-set, slitted windows held watchers and keen-  
eyed bowmen. Great halls and barracks echoed with the squabbles of  
countless Men and Orcs. Foundations plunged within the depths of the earth,  
sunk with the power of the Ring, rumours of filthy pits and forgotten  
dungeons - nameless and unspeakable. Terrible black entrances like dark,  
hungry maws, protected by iron-bound gates and steel-toothed portcullis.  
Drawbridges raised and made fast from over the great moat, filled with fire  
and smoke, to be lowered only to spew forth enemy troops, or to snatch in  
unfortunate captives.

From the road ahead came a terrible sound, shrieking and screeching, the  
thunder of feet and hooves, and underpinning all, the thump of dreadful  
drums.

“Here they come!” Glorfindel’s horse flashed past them, his warriors close  
behind, and the trumpets rang out a warning.

“Lead company with me!” cried Gil-galad to his Elves, “To the barricade!  
Anárion! Bring your hand-picked men! Cirdan, get the rest of them under  
cover.” He sprang forward, Aeglos raised, his squire following with his  
battle standard.

Gildinwen shed her bedroll and heavy shield, and pushed them at Mardil. “Go  
with the others!” she shouted.

“But, my lady..”

“Do as I tell you!” She snatched out her sword, lifted her banner and leapt  
after Lord Gil-galad.

“I do believe I’m getting a bit of taste for this,” she thought, in a tiny  
moment of clarity before the madness began.

Elrond’s archers were already defending the barricade, their arrows flying  
thick and fast, picking off the leading ranks of the enemy as they poured  
down the causeway, a black and terrible force. The Elf-lord himself wielded  
his great bow, sending arrow after arrow into the foul stream, the power of  
his presence and might of his voice welding his warriors together. The  
sheer numbers of the enemy were too great to stop by arrows alone, and soon  
the bowmen had to fall back as the dark tide broke against the barrier, and  
flowed over it. Gil-galad’s warriors and Anárion’s crack company were there  
to meet it. The foul air filled with the sound of battle, sword on sword,  
steel on flesh, screams of death and of victory. Gil-galad was as a warrior  
from legend, seemingly everywhere at once, striding larger-than-life amidst  
the turmoil and confusion, his terrible spear wreaking a dreadful havoc,  
his shouts of encouragement empowering his men. Gildinwen matched his pace,  
her duty to keep the standard with him at all times. An enemy sword thrust  
at her, and she parried without thinking, hitting the wielder in the face  
with the butt of the banner staff, slicing open his belly with her sword,  
and moving on without even looking at him. Her vision reduced to a narrow  
field, the apex of which was Lord Gil-galad. She felt a heavy blow on her  
left shoulder, deflected by the Elven armour but enough to push her to her  
knees. Her sword became trapped under the banner staff, and as she  
struggled to free it, her antagonist raised his blade. Dropping her sword  
she tugged the knife from her belt and slashed at him. He hopped back  
yelling, giving her just enough time to retrieve her sword and finish him  
off.

The ground was thick and sticky where blood soaked into the dust, the  
bodies of friend and foe alike piling up underfoot. Still the archers  
felled Sauron’s forces as they came, still the foot soldiers hacked at  
them, and still Lord Gil-galad blazed like a star in the centre of the  
maelstrom. Gradually the enemy slowed, now only a few at a time clambered  
over the barricade.

“To me!” cried the Elf-Lord, striding forward and cutting down the foes as  
they appeared. He sprang up onto the top of the barrier, his great spear  
rising and falling. His squire leapt up after him, the battle standard  
proud, and a great cry sang out from the Elven throats to see it. Gildinwen  
was less nimble, but managed to scramble up, the sight of the Banner of  
Amarnon raising a shout among Anárion’s soldiers. Now their forces flowed  
over the barricade as those of Mordor turned tail and ran back to the gate.

“Hold here!” shouted Lord Gil-galad, once they were routed, “Our purpose  
today is to invest the fortress, let us not be drawn on.”

Gildinwen turned to look from her position of advantage. The forces of the  
Alliance were pouring into the trenches, those of Elendil and Isildur to  
the right, Elves and Anárion to the left. Gil-galad and Anárion stood side-  
by-side atop the barricade, weapons raised in salute as the troops arrived.  
Cheers rose as they passed. By nightfall the investment would be complete,  
and Sauron surrounded.

The siege of Barad-dúr had begun.

 

 

Simple as their accommodation had been previously, it was positively  
luxurious compared to that they now came to. Living quarters had been hewn  
into the crumbling black rock, dark, cramped and airless. Rough timbers  
supported the roofs, and formed walls and partitions. Space was very tight.  
Gil-galad’s headquarters were in a large chamber, excavated from a natural  
cave in the wall of a large gully. At the back, partitioned sleeping areas  
were provided for himself and Cirdan. Their attendants and squires slept on  
the floor, finding a space as best they could amid the clutter of maps,  
tables, weapons and equipment.

A similar but much smaller arrangement had been provided for the officers  
of his company, with Glorfindel, Elrond and Galeria’s two brothers assigned  
a single living and working area. Raw boards partitioned cramped bunks,  
with blankets hung up to provide a semblance of privacy. Weapons, clothes  
and accoutrements crowded the walls. There being no room in the main  
chamber, the squires and pages were to be bedded down in a rough dugout  
next door. Gildinwen was relieved to find that there was at least one  
advantage to being the only human female in the group, when she was  
assigned a place of her own. Much as she enjoyed the company of the others,  
there were some things that would be just too impractical amid a group of  
male Elves.

“Well,” she tried to keep the dismay from her voice as she looked around  
the poky room. A narrow box bed had been built into the back, and a large  
work table squeezed against one wall. “Not much space to swing a cat in  
here, is there Mardil?”

The boy grinned at such an outrageous suggestion, but she could see the  
exhaustion behind his eyes.

“Sit down,” she told him, pointing to the only chair.

“But my lady, should I not help you unpack the things.”

“No, that can all wait until tomorrow. You need some food and a good  
sleep.”

She was just wondering whether it was expected that Mardil would also share  
this cramped space, when Elrond ducked under the lintel.

“Good evening, my lady.” He spoke formally.

“My lord.” She nodded.

“Is this your new assistant?”

“Indeed it is. Master Mardil, this is the Lord Elrond.”

He rose to his feet, and bowed.

“How old are you?” The Elf-lord’s voice was kindly.

“Ten years, my lord.” He was small for ten, but his face looked older.

“You have seen a lot of battle for such a young age.”

Mardil matched the Elf-Lord’s gaze respectfully, but he did not reply.

“And now we should see about getting you a billet.” He looked up at  
Gildinwen, “There is a place with our squires should you wish it.”

She looked at the lad, “Mardil, you may choose for yourself, whether you  
shall stay here with me, or bunk with the other boys.”

“If it please you, my lady, I should prefer to be with the others.”

She smiled, “You may change your mind if you find it does not suit you.”

“Halmir!” called Elrond, and his squire, a lanky, blond elf-lad with a  
permanently worried look, appeared in the doorway.

“My lord?”

“This is Master Mardil, page to the Lady Gildinwen, he is to billet with  
you. Show him where he will sleep, and make sure he gets some food.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Once the boys had gone, Elrond approached her, concern in his grey eyes.  
“Were you injured today?”

“Only some bruises, fortunately.”

He looked worried, “I do not like you being in danger.”

“Nor I you, my lord,” she countered, “but we are at war, and have duties to  
perform, danger or no.”

He smiled grimly, then kissed her lightly. “Come next door and have some  
food with us.” His face lightened, “We have a guest I think you will want  
to see.”

 

 

After quickly washing and changing out of her battle-soiled clothes,  
Gildinwen ducked under the blanket covering the door of the Elves’ new  
residence and was delighted to be met by a smile from their guest.

“Galeria!” she hurried over to give her a hug.

“Gil!”

“I have missed you so much.”

The Elf smiled fondly, “And I you, my friend.”

Elrond was already at the table but happily moved up a seat so she that she  
could sit down between them. The cloth was set with food and drink, with  
Galeria’s two brothers eyeing it ravenously.

“So what is the new hospital like?” Gil asked, “I have been meaning to  
come by and see you.”

“Today is our first busy day,” laughed Galeria, a touch ruefully, “but  
thankfully we have not too many wounded.”

A rustle at the door announced the arrival of Glorfindel, the last member  
of the party.

“At last!” cried Gildor. “I though I might pass out from hunger, waiting on  
you.”

“And I!” grinned Galdor wickedly, as the golden-haired elf took his seat,  
“One would have thought he would show us a little more courtesy, all things  
considered.” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully at his sister, causing  
her to burst out with laughter, and nearly spill the wine she was pouring.

Gildinwen smiled, but a little sadness tugged at her too.

“Hey.” Galeria touched her on the arm. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing.” She reached for some bread, “Just that my brother Argilin  
would probably have said something quite similar.”

“Do you miss him very much?” Galeria passed her a cup.

“Not as much as I should,” replied Gildinwen a little shamefaced, “but  
occasionally something will happen to remind me, and bring it all back.”  
She took a bite of bread.

“You both have Elven names.” Glorfindel leaned forward to help himself to  
some food. “How did you come by them?”

Gildinwen smiled, “That was a very long held tradition in the family. There  
was always a ‘Gil’ element of course, in honour of Lord Gil-galad, and in  
my case the rest was a joke of my father’s - I was a very noisy baby.” [i]

A ripple of amused laughter followed.

“Are you the eldest?” mumbled Galdor through a mouthful.

“Galdor!” admonished his sister, causing Gil another painful laugh.

She nodded, swallowing, “Yes, by a sad twist of fate I am the firstborn.”  
She took a sip of wine, “There would have been a child before me but his  
mother died of a virulent fever before he was brought to term.”

There was suddenly a silence. Galdor had frozen with a piece of bread  
halfway to his mouth, Galeria’s face was shocked, “You mean, your father  
had two wives?”

Gildinwen laughed, “Not at the same time! He was a widower for two years  
before marrying my mother.”

This did not seem to improve matters. Galeria whispered aghast, “Your  
mother was his second wife?”

“Yes,” Gildinwen was puzzled, “That is considered quite usual among  
humans.”

Galdor swallowed his bread, “Well, you learn something new everyday.”

“Did you know about this?” Galeria turned to Elrond.

“That it was usual among humans, or that Gil was the daughter of a second  
wife?” his voice was displeased.

“Either!” the Elf’s voice rose.

Elrond glowered, “Yes, I knew it was common among humans. No, I did not  
know of Gil’s particular circumstance. Not that I see it matters.” His  
voice was firm and adamant.

“Will someone please tell me what is going on?” Gildinwen’s voice was tight  
with annoyance, “I do not greatly appreciate being talked about as though I  
was not even here.”

“I am sorry, Gil.” Galeria collected herself with a smile. “It is just a  
shock to us that is all. Such an arrangement would be considered most..,”  
she paused, searching for the right word, “...unorthodox, among Elves.”

“Was your mother of much lower rank than your father’s first wife?” asked  
Glorfindel curiously.

“No, she was not!” retorted Gildinwen vehemently, “If anything she was from  
a better family.”

Galeria shook her head in disbelief, “How very strange! No Elf-lady of  
quality would ever stoop to the ignominy of becoming a second wife, it  
would be considered most demeaning. Even her children would bear the stigma  
of it, being unable to assume the status of either parent.”

“Well,” replied Gil, stiffly, “my mother taught me that a person should be  
valued for their own qualities regardless of rank or position.”

“She would!” snickered Gildor, only half under his breath.

Elrond laid a hand on her arm, “Peace,” he whispered. But Gil was not to be  
so easily mollified.

She drew herself up very tall. “Here I am, still the very same Gil who sat  
here a moment ago, only now you are all looking down on me because it turns  
out I am the daughter of a second wife?”

“Oh, no, no!” Galeria hurried to reassure her, “For friendship, and er...”  
she glanced involuntarily at Elrond, and at least had the grace to look a  
little embarrassed, “these things do not matter at all. It is only for  
marriage that they are important,” her voice tailed off as she caught the  
look on Gildinwen’s face.

Glorfindel looked from Gildinwen to Elrond and back again, an astonished  
realisation dawning on his face.

“I see.” Gildinwen pushed back her chair, and rose very deliberately to her  
feet. “If you will excuse me.”

“How long has this been going on?” Glorfindel asked the brothers, his voice  
astounded.

“Gil!” Elrond reached for her arm, but she evaded him.

“Oh, just about as long as you have been too distracted to notice.” smirked  
one of the two elves.

“Elrond!” grinned the golden Elf. “You dark fox.”

Gil snatched up her cloak, and pushed her way angrily out the doorway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

\-----------------------  
[i] Gildinwen means Silent Star Maiden.

Author’s notes: Yes, yes, this whole business of second wives is a total  
inference on my part, and it will be explained further in the next chapter.  
I repeat: the story is LotR and Silmarillion based.


	16. Neither the Time nor the Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

She stormed into her billet, fists clenched with rage.

Elrond was only moments behind her. “Gil!”

She turned. Chin raised defiantly and eyes flashing with anger.

He raised his hands in a gesture of placation.

She stepped back, jaw set and nostrils flaring. Her chest heaved as she  
fought to control herself.

“Listen to me.” He approached her slowly. “They did not mean to offend  
you.”

“Well I am offended!” she snarled. “Where I come from telling someone that  
they are good enough to be a bedfellow but not to marry into the family-  
whether they ever intended to or not - is considered to be very offensive  
indeed.”

“They are foolish Elves who know nothing outside their own world.”

“I might have expected an insult like this from a common soldier, but never  
from those I had thought to be my friends.” She laughed harshly, “Or is it  
that I am so kind and understanding, I will just let it pass?”

He took her gently by the shoulders and she felt the tears start to gather,  
thickening her voice, “I never asked for anything from you, never looked to  
the future, spared no thought for my reputation. I gave myself to you  
freely, both love and honour. Trusting you with all that I had.”

“Hush, my love.” He wrapped his arms about her, pressing his cheek to the  
top of her head. “They were but a few ill-chosen words, pay them no mind.  
They have no place between us.”

Anger, uncertainty and an aching for comfort vied in her as he stroked her  
hair soothingly. Once she had quietened a little he stood back and brushed  
away her tears, before placing his hands once more on her shoulders. His  
face very serious, his grey eyes fixed onto hers. “There are matters which  
must be discussed between us, concerning the future. But this is not the  
place, nor is it the time.” He looked deep into her eyes, shadowed as they  
were with misgiving, and lifted his fine hands to cradle her face, fingers  
stroking the forehead furrowed with doubt, “You know that I love you. I  
must ask you to trust me a little longer, my heart.”

She felt herself lost in the depths of his eyes, and knew there would be no  
escape for her, even had she wished it. An wavering smile came to her lips,  
“I have bound my fate to yours, my lord, for whatever good or ill may come  
of it.”

He sat her on the bed, and pulled up the chair to sit facing her. “Do not  
be too quick to judge the others.”

She frowned again. “I do not understand what is so bad about my father  
having two wives, do Elves really consider it so terrible to marry again?”

Elrond nodded, “It is not unheard of, but it is deeply disapproved.”

“But, why? What is the harm in it?”

“In the long ages past, before Men were even awakened, when the land of  
Valinor was in its glory of summer, Finwë took Miriel to wife. Their love  
was great, and a son Fëanor was born to them. But the bearing of him took  
all the strength of Finwë‘s wife, and she passed into the halls of Mandos.  
After many years of loneliness, Finwë took a second wife, Indis the fair,  
whom he loved also. Two sons she bore him, Fingolfin and Finarfin.

“But Fëanor was not pleased, and he had no love for Indis, or for his half  
brothers. He lived apart from them, and in secret he mastered his craft,  
and created the Silmarils. Immeasurably beautiful gems in which the light  
of the Trees, and the glory of the blessed realm was preserved  
imperishable. Then Melkor, the Spirit of Evil [1], desired the Silmarils  
for his own, and he whispered lies to Fëanor, fanning the resentment  
already smouldering in him. And to Fingolfin and Finarfin he said that  
their elder brother, being the father’s favourite, would drive them from  
their inheritance. Thus did Fëanor become the first to break the peace of  
Valinor and draw a sword upon a kinsman.

“And in the wars of kin against kin, fought for many reasons, and the  
terrible strife over the Silmarils, ever were the elder line of Fëanor, who  
was the father of Maglor, and the younger line of Fingolfin, from whom I am  
descended, set against each other. Therefore has it become our custom to  
marry only once, and as is often the way with such things, the reasoning  
behind it has been largely forgotten and only inflexible tradition  
remains.”

Gildinwen nodded slowly, “I understand, and to be fair we have a similar  
taboo against unmarried union.”

He looked surprised, “Indeed?”

“Certainly.” She smiled wryly. “Although it is most one-sided. For a man to  
have had lovers before marriage is considered quite usual, but that same  
man would never dream of accepting a wife who had been with another.”

“I see.” He looked steadily at her for a long moment. “You really have  
trusted me with all that you have.”

She blushed slightly, smiling.

“Amongst Elves, one may take lovers at will before marriage, indeed it is  
considered wise to do so. [2] For the union once it is made will be final  
and binding, and is not to be taken lightly.”

Gildinwen was thoughtful for a while. Then she looked up at him and  
grinned, “Actually, I think it was worth all that just for the look on  
Glorfindel’s face.”

Elrond lifted his brows in amusement, “He was most surprised.” He chuckled,  
then smiled, “I will speak to the others tomorrow.”

He continued to look intently at her, the smile playing over his lips.

“What is it?”

“By Elbereth!” he laughed, “I do believe that you are more beautiful in  
anger than at any other time.” He bared his teeth slightly, in a predatory  
smile. “Save perhaps one...”

Her dark eyes flashed him a fierce look.

“All fire and mettle like an wild filly,” his voice was husky.

“And you think perhaps to try and tame me?” She tossed her head in playful  
defiance.

With a growl he was on her. Caught, lifted and pinned under him, all in a  
single smooth action. “We shall see, shall we?”[3]

 

 

Gildinwen and Mardil spent the next morning busily unpacking and sorting  
papers and reports. Everything that could be useful to Lord Gil-galad was  
transferred to his headquarters - maps, reports and messages - so that he  
might have all to hand. In her own workroom were kept copies of  
correspondence and intercepted messages, as well as the codes and ciphers.  
Mardil helped her to cram everything onto makeshift shelves.

“Well,” she said as she sat back in her chair, starting on the food that  
Mardil had fetched from the cookshop, “I think we’ve about done  
everything.”

He nodded, perched on a rickety stool, eating hungrily.

“So, Mardil,” she reached for the flask of water, “How are your lodgings?”

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, “A bit crowded, but alright.”

“And the Elves? You’re getting on with them?” ‘Unlike me,’ she thought  
ruefully.

A shrug, “Haven’t had much to say to them yet.”

She smiled, “Alright, you let me know if you want to change, yes?”

He nodded, mumbling through his food, “I will.”

“Good.” She grinned, “Now, eat up. We’re going out this afternoon.”

 

 

They had only managed a few hundred yards up the ragged gully when the  
bombardment started. At the first whistling, rushing sound, they looked  
around puzzled, and the shock of the impact on the bank above threw them to  
the ground amid a rain of grit and shards.

“Mardil!” she shouted, and together they huddled close to the walls,  
shields raised. Another missile came in, stones and debris pelting down,  
ash and dust rising up.

“They’re throwing rocks.” The boy shouted above the noise, “They must have  
catapults.”

“You’re right,” replied Gil, unwinding her scarf and spitting the dirt from  
her mouth. “Curse them.”

After a few minutes, things quietened. Gil could hear shouts and cries from  
nearby, but could see little through the dust.

“Come on.” She said to Mardil, “They can’t get a direct hit in here,  
they’re just trying to frighten us.” ‘I hope,’ she added silently.

They lifted their shields, and stumbled on towards the checkpoint at the  
end of the gully. Here there was a defensive position, manned night and day  
with Elrond’s bowmen, and Gil-galad’s warriors. No-one could enter or leave  
the Elven King’s headquarters without passing them. Arrow slits looked out  
towards the Tower, as well as down into the trenches on either side.

“Who goes there?” called the Elf on guard, sword ready in hand.

“The Lady Gildinwen and page.” She replied, pulling the cloth from her face  
so they could see her.

“Pass.”

They squeezed through a narrow defile, then into a deep trench angling away  
from the Fortress, protective bastions manned with Elven footsoldiers  
spaced along it at regular intervals. This time their reaction to the sound  
of the incoming missile was almost instinctive. They crouched low, shields  
raised, but the shot landed some distance from them. Keeping their shields  
in place they crept forward, at first flinching at each new impact, but  
quickly learning to tell if it would land near or far.

“Where are we going anyway?” queried Mardil, as they scrambled on.

“To the hospital.” Gildinwen’s voice was muffled by her scarf.

“What for?”

“Firstly, I have to see a friend, and straighten out a misunderstanding.”  
She ducked as a smattering of secondary debris showered in from another  
impact. “And then, I want her to take a look at your foot.”

“Why?!” Mardil stopped, his voice angry and defensive. “It hasn’t been  
slowing me down. I’ve done everything you’ve asked, and always kept up.  
You’ve no cause to complain.”

“Mardil.” Her voice was quiet and kind, and she removed the scarf to look  
at him. “Your service has been exemplary, indeed if it wasn’t for one thing  
then I would never have even noticed your foot.”

His young face creased with a familiar anger. “What thing?” he cried, “Tell  
me!”

She put a hand out to his shoulder, “You are in pain. All the time.”

“So?” he shrugged her off crossly, “That doesn’t stop me from doing my  
duties! It’s not fair to count it against me.”

“I’m not counting it against you.” She tried to keep the exasperation from  
her voice, “I’m just trying to see if we can do anything to ease it that’s  
all!”

“Don’t you think I’ve seen healers before? Don’t you think I’ve been  
prodded, and poked, and squeezed and pinched?” His face was miserable,  
“I’ve had burning plasters, leeches, stinking salves, even a frightful  
wooden shoe, but none of it worked.” He looked up at her, pleading.  
“Please. Don’t make it any worse.”

“Listen to me,” her voice was low and serious, “I’m taking you to see an  
Elven healer. I promise you that she will not hurt you, and if she says she  
cannot help you, then we will never mention it again, alright?”

His sullen look lifted slightly, “Will you still keep me as your page?”

“Yes,” she gave him a warm smile, “Of course I will.”

“Alright then.” He agreed reluctantly, “But it had better not hurt, at  
all.”

The now familiar rushing noise grew loud. “It’s a big one!” Gil shouted,  
pushing the boy down against the wall, and crouching beside him, their  
shields locked. The hit was very close, a choking fall of rock and rubble  
exploded around them, rattling on their wooden shelter and stinging exposed  
ankles.

When they emerged they could see that the walls of the trench they had just  
passed along had been subjected to a direct hit, and had collapsed in a  
heap of debris, blocking them in.

“Come on, Mardil.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him onward. ‘I have a  
bad feeling about this,’ she thought. There was a defensive bastion a few  
dozen yards away, if they could reach it... but the air rang again with the  
ominous sound. Just in time they flung themselves to the ground, and when  
they looked up through the hail of fragments and shroud of dust, the  
casemate they had hoped to reach was a shattered ruin - and their escape  
was blocked.

Mardil looked up at her worried, “We’re trapped.”

She smiled reassuringly, “Don’t worry, the dwarves can dig us out in an  
hour or two.” If we have that long, she thought.

A soft moan from up ahead distracted her.

“Stay here.” She instructed Mardil firmly, “I mean it.”

Lifting her shield she crept forward, careful to keep under cover. Perhaps  
if the enemy could not see them, they would not waste their ammunition.

The guards of the watchtower lay covered by the debris of their post. Two  
young Elves. One was dead already, skull crushed and eyes lifeless. The  
other senseless, an occasional soft groan and soft flutter of pulse his  
only sign of life. Blood dark and sticky in the pale hair.

She dragged him into the shelter of the wall, and motioned Mardil to come  
up.

“Is he badly hurt?” the boy’s face was white.

“It’s difficult to say,” she felt the Elf’s skull carefully, “I can find no  
obvious injury.”

The awful noise whined in again, and this time an explosion of fire rained  
upon them, sparks and drops of flame. The shot had landed a fair distance  
away, but after a minute or two another came in......nearer

“By all the stars!” she swore. “That was a bit close for comfort.”

The third was yet nearer, collapsing some more of the trench walls.

‘They know we’re here’, she thought, ‘it’s only a matter of time.’ She  
looked at Mardil’s face, taut with fear.

Think Gil! Alright, only a traction trebuchet could be loaded and fired  
this fast, and it still takes a minute or two - assuming there’s only one.  
We’re in the south west trench leading to the valley where the hospital is.  
Who knows what state the passage is on the other side of these falls? Where  
can we run to? Could we make it across the top to the valley on the other  
side, in a minute?

They cowered again as yet another shot seared in, bursting in a smouldering  
rain of fire.

No choice. We can’t stay here.

“Mardil. Listen to me.”

He fixed his strained eyes on her.

“We’re going to have to make a run for it.” She pointed, “Up over the side  
of the trench, then straight on. There will be a shallow climb up to a  
sharp ridge, and we’ll be safe on the other side. Do you understand?”

“Do we wait until just after the next shot?”

“That’s right.” She grinned through the grime, “Clever lad.”

A small, tight smile of pride came to his face.

“You must run as hard as you can, do you understand?”

He nodded grimly.

The sky filled with noise again.

“What about him?” he shouted above the din, pointing at the Elf

“He will have to come too.”

The fireball exploded, pelting the shields with fiery shrapnel and molten  
drops.

“Come on!” Gil roused the boy even before the debris had settled. Jamming  
her shield against the wall of the trench, she placed her back against it  
and laced her fingers. Mardil put his foot in them, grabbed her shoulders  
and was propelled up and over the parapet.

She hefted the Elf onto one shoulder, his limp form unwieldy but thankfully  
not too heavy. ‘If you were a Man,’ she thought, ‘I wouldn’t be able to do  
this.’

Taking what short run the narrow space allowed, she managed to balance  
briefly on the top of the shield, the edge of the parapet just below her  
shoulder. Mardil grabbed at her scrabbling hand and she pitched her burden  
forward, lifting his legs over the lip before crawling after.

How long had they taken already?

“Run Mardil!” she shouted, heaving the Elf up again and lurching forward.

Ahead of them the ground rose, the surface torn and gouged by the recent  
pounding. She ran, unbalanced and ragged, staggering up the slope, her  
burden shifting and sliding on her shoulder.

How far was it? Maybe a hundred yards? She forced her legs to move faster.  
A few steps ahead of her Mardil was charging up the hill. ‘Good lad,’ she  
thought.

Her chest burned, and fire tore through her back and thighs.

From ahead she could hear shouts. The guards on the ridge towers were  
urging them on.

How much time had they left?

The boy had almost made it.

Behind her the dreadful noise filled the air again.

Mardil stumbled and fell.

Within a moment she had reached him, bending her knees while scarcely

breaking stride she grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and dragged him  
up. The ridgeline was just ahead. The noise was deafening and she felt the  
back of her neck begin to singe. She heaved Mardil bodily over the top,  
then threw herself after, clutching onto their casualty while they rolled  
and tumbled down the rough, steep slope to safety. Behind them a blast of  
heat and fire rolled out harmlessly over their heads, the scattering of  
rock and sparks hardly noticeable amid the rubble of their fall.

 

 

Gildinwen sat in a chair trying not to wince as Galeria picked grit out of  
the scrape on her cheek.

“Well, you will go throwing yourself down mountains,” grinned the Elf.

“Ow!”

“Honestly! What a fuss.” She continued with mock gravity.

Gil tried unsuccessfully not to laugh, knowing how much more it would make  
her face hurt. “You are doing it on purpose!”

“It is true what they say - healers make the worst patients.”

“You will be a patient yourself shortly if.....Ow!”

“Now, now!” Galeria remonstrated delightedly, “What kind of an example is  
that to set your young page?”

Mardil sat on a cot across the other side of the room, so absorbed in  
admiring his bandaged arm that he did not even notice the healer tending to  
his foot.

“There.” Galeria stood back, “That should do it.”

“Thanks.” Gil grinned stiffly. She looked over at Mardil. “Can anything be  
done for him?”

“The foot cannot be straightened, but is not in itself painful. Excessive  
walking, compounded by lack of care, have caused chafing and sores to  
become infected. We will give him some herbs to bathe it, and advice on how  
to prevent such things occurring again.”

“Thank you, Galeria.” She smiled at the Elf.

“You are welcome, my friend.” Galeria touched her fondly on the shoulder.  
“Now come with me, there is a young Elf wishing to thank you in person.”

 

 

 

 

[1] Yes, I know this is probably not the most technically accurate  
description of Melkor, but I needed to describe him in a few words. Please  
don’t bother emailing me with 10 paragraphs explaining why this description  
is against canon.

[2] Okay, I’m pretty sure this is *not* JRRT canon, but it makes the story  
much more interesting.

[3] For the missing NC-17 love scene, please see The Standard Bearer -  
Extra Scenes, Scene 2: A Little Horseplay.


	17. The West Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Lord Gil-galad’s headquarters were more than usually busy when Gildinwen  
entered them. Dispatches had arrived from Minas Ithil, and the room was  
filled with both messengers and members of the war council.

“Good morning, my lords.” She bowed to Gil-galad and Círdan.

“Ah, Gildinwen.” The Elven King’s voice was pleased, “The very person! Lord  
Anárion has just been asking me about you.”

She turned to see the friendly face of the man in question, the habitual  
smile on his face and a bundle of letters in his hand, “Good morning.” he  
grinned.

“My Lord.” She returned his bow.

“I was just asking Lord Gil-galad how you’d been getting on with young  
Mardil, now that he’s been with you a few weeks.” He wandered over to the  
table where she had some maps laid out.

Her smile was genuine, “He’s an excellent lad, my Lord. Helpful, friendly,  
hard-working and very clever.”

“And he’s enjoying the work?”

“I certainly believe so.”

His face grew concerned, “How is his foot bearing up?”

“Much better, due in large part to the fact that we have little marching to  
do these days.”

“Good!” he replied, “I’m very pleased to hear that you suit each other.” He  
drew her aside into a corner, and dropped his voice. “I wonder if I may be  
so bold as to ask yet another favour of you?”

“I shall be pleased to help you if I can, my lord.”

He looked worried, “It’s Isildur.”

“The same ah...trouble as before?”

He nodded, and sifted through the handful of letters in his hand. Holding  
up a fat one, “From my wife,” a sunny smile lit his face. Then a cloud  
covered it as he lifted a much thinner one, “The Lady Varadil.”

“I see.” She looked down, “To be honest, my lord, I don’t know what help I  
can be.”

“He might talk to you. Neither Father nor myself can get anything out of  
him on the matter.”

“If it is what you wish, then I shall try.”

“Thank you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, “This siege is a hard fight  
and we need him with us.” He drew his letters from the bundle and thrust  
the rest at her, “Here, take these as an excuse for going.”

 

 

It would be a good three miles to Isildur’s camp, situated in the higher  
ground to the South East of the Fortress. Most of it through the awkward  
twisting trench city, so she decided to leave Mardil behind.

“But, my lady.” He protested, “It’s not safe. I should be with you.”

“Don’t fuss, Mardil,” she laughed, “Lord Anárion is sending two soldiers to  
accompany me, and I shall be behind our lines the whole time.”

He looked sceptical, “You have to cross the Road.”

This was true. In order to cross the West Road the Alliance had bridged the  
fiery chasms on either side, building up protective barriers over both them  
and the highway. Despite this it was still a notorious killing ground, both  
bridges and barriers attacked daily, if not hourly, and often destroyed.

“I promise to be very careful, and besides which,” she laid a heavy satchel  
on the table, “you’ve got plenty of work to do while I’m gone.”

The boy’s face lit up when he saw the new messages. He had been studiously  
learning the ciphers and was keen to try them out.

 

 

The two soldiers assigned by Anárion to be her escort were lounging by the  
grimy wall when she came out. Spotting her, they hastily straightened up,  
dusting the soot from their tabards before giving deep bows. When they  
rose, their grins of anticipation were quickly matched by her incredulous  
one.

“Tom!” she cried, “Will!”

“My lady.” They grinned jointly.

“How are you both?” She couldn’t resist hugging them impetuously, to their  
great embarrassment.

“Oh, not too bad, all things considered,” replied Tom cheerfully, as they  
set off, their feet muffled in the thick carpet of ash.

“And you’ve fully recovered from your wound?” she asked Will.

“Which one?” he returned, flippantly.

Tom laughed, “He’s a regular hero now, our Will. Been wounded five times,  
and saved at least three people.”

Gildinwen shook her head disbelievingly, “It is so good to see you both,  
and I’m very glad to have you escorting me.”

“We’re honoured to do it, my lady,” they replied proudly.

It took them about half an hour to reach the crossing point on the West  
Road. There was a queue so they had to wait. The noxious smell of sulphur  
and gas was already thick, and the heat noticeable.

“It seems quiet enough,” remarked Gildinwen, wiping her damp brow with a  
gritty sleeve.

“That’s what’s worrying me,” said Will, his face serious, as they shuffled  
further up the line, “It means they could start at any time.”

As they reached the bridgehead they were shepherded into a small group to  
make the crossing. Gatehouses had been erected to house the archers and  
watchmen whose duty it was to protect those who crossed. Sharp Elven eyes  
were trained keenly on the Fortress windows and crenellations, alert for  
any movement that would indicate an attack. For any sign of enemy bowmen or  
the great catapults being made ready. Barrack rooms nearby held armed men,  
ready to man the barricades and fling back any attack coming down the road.  
Even precious horses stood in waiting should they be needed.

The chasms were still relatively narrow here, only half a dozen yards  
across, but the line of sight from the Tower was wide open. Barriers were  
erected along the citadel side of the bridges, and across the wide road,  
these provided cover from view and some protection from arrows, but nothing  
against the rocks, fire and bolts aimed so accurately by Sauron’s trebuchet  
men. Crossings were staggered at random intervals to prevent prediction by  
the enemy.

They watched as the group before them hurried over, crouched, running  
bunched together along the narrow bridgework, spreading out over the wide  
road, gouged and pitted with the scars of many an attack, then single file  
again to disappear into safety on the other side. A matter of a few  
seconds, certainly less than a minute.

“Ready,” commanded the crossing marshal, his eyes on the lookouts.

They tensed, waiting, shields ready, braced to run. Two sturdy dwarves,  
leather-clad and stout, were in front of them, and a single Elven warrior  
graced the head of their group. Gil waited between Tom and Will, while  
behind them two or three seasoned men-at-arms chatted idly.

No signal from the lookouts. The marshal gave the word, “Go!”

They ran. The Elf’s feet light and accurate on the narrow boards, the  
dwarves thumping over. Gil ran crouching, shield overhead, her thighs  
screaming their dissent. In front of her, she could just see Tom loping  
easily, and the sound of Will’s steps were hard on her own. Beneath their  
feet, a hot, choking fog of steam and sulphur rose from the chasm which  
fell away beneath them, black and red.

They were over the first bridge, now they dodged and wove through the  
craters and rubble of the road, the second bridge just ahead.

A cry from the lookouts gave a momentary warning, but the sound was still  
in their ears when the first bolt hit. A deadly accurate shot, it speared  
the Elf through the chest as he set his first step on the bridge. A  
momentary glimpse of surprise and pain, as he span, blood flowing red from  
his mouth, then he staggered and fell back, tumbling over the rail into the  
fiery pit beneath them.

The dwarves stopped dead, colliding and collapsing in an untidy heap, then  
crawling as close to the barricade as they could.

Gil felt her breath knocked out as Will launched himself forward, bearing  
her to the ground. A dart struck the ground beside them, embedding itself  
viciously in the ground. Just in front of them, Tom was cursing loudly.

A murderous hail of bolts, darts and missiles now rained in from the Tower.  
No thought could be given to running, they inched their way forward on  
their bellies. Over the rough, jagged surface of the road, Gildinwen’s  
knees and elbows raw and scraped, then onto the bridge, its wooden surface  
spattered with blood. Peering down between the boards at the roiling  
depths, smoke and fumes thick in their nostrils. Crashing and whistling  
sounded all around, and then a terrible scream from behind them. Gil  
hesitated for a fraction of a second, then Will hissed at her, “Go on. We  
can do nothing here.” With great relief the three of them reached the end  
of the bridge, where friendly hands reached out to drag them into the  
relative safety of the trenches.

“Are you alright?” Will asked her solicitously.

She nodded, clenching her fists to try and stop her hands from shaking. She  
was sweat-drenched and grimy, clothing torn and dirty, dark blood staining  
the knees.

“Here,” Tom offered her a flask and she took a drink gratefully, the cool  
water soothing her throat, dry from dust and fear.

“Come on,” said Will, “There’s a place nearby where you can rest and have  
some food before we continue. Besides which,” he grinned, “if he finds out  
you were here and we didn’t bring you to visit, our lives wouldn’t be worth  
living.”

 

 

The guardroom was smallish, but comfortable. A stove burned in one corner,  
a pot bubbling merrily on the top. The only occupant sat at the rough  
wooden table.

“Sergeant Gillow!” she hurried forward to greet him, hands outstretched.

He stood to take them in his and bent his grey head low, “My lady.” His  
gruff voice was full.

“You are well?” she felt a lump in her throat, faced with this faithful old  
soldier, the first to recognise her.

“Yes, my lady.” He grinned widely.

“And your leg?”

“Sound as a bell!” he slapped the limb in question. “Now don’t just stand  
here, sit down, have some food.”

She took a chair beside the stove, her mouth watering at the delicious  
smells emanating from the pot.

“So when did you come up, Bregor?” She asked, watching intently as he  
spooned the thick soup into a bowl.

“Just in time to come to this lovely place,” he grimaced, only half joking,  
passing her the dish. “Missed all the fighting at Dagorlad.”

She picked up a spoon and started in eagerly, “Ah, hot!” She blew on it  
impatiently. “Horrible place, Dagorlad.” She sipped cautiously. “Then  
again,” she laughed, “It’s worse here!”

“But things worked out well for you? As you expected?”

“They certainly worked out well,” she smiled happily, “But as I expected?”  
She sat lost in thought for a long moment. Did I expect to be honoured and  
trusted by Lord Gil-galad? To stand by his side in battle? To make friends  
among the Elves? Did I expect to find love? Did I ever, even imagine it was  
possible to love so? And to have such love in return? “No,” she shook her  
head slowly, “Never as I expected, never in a lifetime of dreaming.”

“Sergeant!” The familiar voice caused Gil to lower her spoon. The doorway  
darkened as a tall figure ducked in. “Have you assigned the guards for .....”  
he broke off as his eye fell on her.

“Hello, Falcred,” she said quietly.

He was thinner, dark shadows round the eyes. The boyish good-looks replaced  
by something edgier.

“Gil.” His voice was guarded, as if this single word held back many  
unspoken ones.

“How are you?” she asked, running her spoon awkwardly round inside her  
bowl.

He looked at her for a long moment, then collected himself, “Fine, thank  
you.” He replied curtly.

He turned to Gillow, “Sergeant, the guard list.”

“Yes, my lord.” He fetched it hastily.

Falcred took it, and casting a silent glance at her, left the room.

Gillow sat down again, and looked at her curiously, “Did something happen  
between you two?”

She toyed with her food, appetite lost. “He made me an offer, a very  
honourable offer.” She smiled ruefully.

“And you turned him down?”

She nodded.

Gillow looked thoughtful, “That might explain a few things.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s changed a lot from the idealistic young man that set out from Minas  
Anor. I thought it was just the effect of this war, or the influence of  
Lord Brithiar.”

“Are they still much together then?”

“Yes,” Gillow’s face darkened, “I don’t like Brith, and I don’t like the  
effect he’s been having on Falcred. He was always a merry young fellow, I  
don’t like to see him dark and brooding like this.”

“Why is Lord Brithiar with Anárion anyway? I thought Isildur was his liege-  
lord?”

“He is, but Brith felt betrayed when Isildur fled to Annúminas, and so he  
came to Minas Anor to join Anárion.” The sergeant pushed back his chair,  
“Come on, lass,” he said fondly, “You don’t need to be listening to our  
troubles. You’d better get started if you’re to be there and back before  
nightfall.”

“You’re right, Bregor.” She stood to take her leave. “I shall come again  
when I can.”

“You know we’re always happy to see you.”

At the door she paused and looked back at him, “Take care of him,  
sergeant.”

“I will, lass. Don’t you fret about it.”

 

 

Lord Isildur sat alone at a long table cradling a half-empty wine cup in  
his hands. He looked very tired.

“My Lord.” Gildinwen’s voice was quiet.

He looked up at her with surprise, his eyes narrowing slightly with  
suspicion. “Lady Gildinwen. This is an unexpected pleasure.” He did not  
rise.

She lifted the satchel of dispatches and placed it on the table in front of  
him. “I have brought letters, my lord. A messenger came in from Minas Ithil  
today.”

His face became animated and setting aside his wine, he rummaged eagerly in  
the bag. She turned away discretely as he drew out his wife’s letter,  
walking over to a side table to pour herself a cup.

He spoke again after a few minutes, “I suppose my brother sent you here?”

She turned. He was leaning back in his chair, his mouth set in disappointed  
lines. The long awaited letter discarded on the table in front of him.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I don’t know what he is thinking of. Even were I looking to..” he paused,  
“forget my sorrows, you are not what I would choose.”

“My lord!” She was shocked, “I’m sure that was not his intention at all.”

He chuckled darkly, “Oh, you think not? I know Anárion, he’s subtle like  
that. Why else would he send you, who undoubtedly have much more important  
matters to attend to, all the way up here.”

She replied stiffly, “He thought that perhaps you might find it helpful to  
talk to me.”

“Talk eh?” He laughed.

She bristled, and he hastened to mollify her, “Peace, my lady. I have no  
such designs.” He looked more closely at her, “Besides which, he’s a fool  
if he can’t see that you’re spoken for already.”

He chuckled at her discomfiture, “Oh don’t worry. I shan’t ask you who it  
is.”

She tried to steer the conversation in a more satisfactory direction, “Your  
brother is deeply concerned for you, my lord.”

“Yes, yes.” Isildur gestured roughly towards a chair, and she sat.

She glanced towards the letter, “So, how is your wife?” she asked politely.

“See for yourself.” He held out the letter.

She held up her hands in denial.

“Go on, go on!” he flapped the paper at her.

She took it and read. The letter was short and formal. Giving news but no  
warmth. She lowered it slowly, “I’m sorry, my lord. I see things have  
improved little.”

“It isn’t your fault.” He sighed, “If only I wasn’t stuck here in this  
wretched war.” He slammed his fist into the table, “If I could just be with  
her, to show her everyday how much I love her, I know she would warm to me  
again.”

“It won’t last forever, my lord.” Gildinwen tried to be cheerful, “I’m sure  
she finds it just as difficult being separated. But when it’s over you will  
ride in triumph and glory to bring her home again to your palace at Minas  
Ithil.”

He looked up, a little hope shining in his eyes. “Yes, yes! We will return  
victorious, and march into Annúminas, proud and strong. Amid celebration  
and rejoicing. I will bring the treasures of Barad-dûr to lay at her feet.”  
His voice strengthened, “And she will see again the heroic prince who once  
stole a fruit from the White Tree of Armenelos, right from under the nose  
of King Ar-Pharazôn.” His face grew proud, as he recalled his past feats of  
legendary daring. He folded the letter and tucked it inside his jerkin,  
then pushing the wine cup aside he stood up.

“My lady.” He bowed shortly, “My thanks to you.” His eyes twinkled, “Now if  
you will excuse me, I have much to do, that I have neglected for too long.”

 

 

Their journey back was thankfully less eventful, and although it was  
getting late by the time Gildinwen finally reached her quarters and shut  
the door, the only thing she had collected along the way was more dirt.

Mardil had lit the lamps, and left out clean water and a jug of wine. She  
washed gratefully, shrugged on a clean undertunic, and had just wrapped a  
robe about herself when Elrond’s soft knock sounded at the door. She  
hastened to admit him.

He was still dressed in his soldier’s tunic, although he had removed his  
armour.

“My love.” He took her carefully in his arms, “I am glad you are back  
safely.”

She leaned into him, arms about his waist, head against the haven of his  
chest. “It would take more than a few arrows to keep me from you.” She  
murmured.

She looked up at him. “You are tired.” She reached a hand to his face.  
“Would you like some wine?”

He smiled at her, and nodded, “ Yes, that would do very well.” He settled  
himself into the chair while she poured for them.

“I had a letter from home today.”

She placed a cup on the table at his elbow “I trust all is well?”

His voice was thoughtful and distant, “My steward tells me that it has been  
a good harvest, and all is set for the winter to come.”

She came up behind him, sliding her hands gently over his stiff shoulders,  
the tension hard beneath the fine cloth.

“You miss it very much.” Slowly she started to move her fingertips over the  
taut muscles.

“Yes.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “It is painful to think of it in this  
place, it makes me long so to be home. And yet, it is to protect it that I  
am here. Imladris is to me, the most beautiful place in all of Middle  
Earth. The restful sound of the river in the valley, the softest light  
against your eyes, and beneath your feet and all around, green of every  
shade and hue.”

“I have seen it,” He looked round at her, surprised, and she smiled at him.  
“Although I have never been there.”

“Then how?”

She lifted a hand to the mithril band, “When I first put this on, I  
saw....things, places. Imladris was one.”

“Tell me what you saw.” He relaxed back into the chair, and Gil hands  
resumed their attentions.

“A green valley, with steep sides, covered with many trees and plants.  
Nestling against one wall, an elegant house, from whose doors and windows  
spread a welcoming light. Balconies along the upper story gave a view over  
the woods, and beautiful gardens stretched down to the river. In the centre  
of the garden an ancient oak tree, its girth broad as the reach of five  
men.”

He laughed softly, “It must be a vision of the future that you saw, for  
there is as yet no second story to the house, and the oak is but a  
sapling.”

They became quiet, each lost in their own thoughts and at peace with the  
other. Gil continued to minister to him. Soothing and tender, her fingers  
pressed and eased, gently at first, then firmer as she felt him start to  
relax a little.

“Take this off,” she tugged at the neck of the tunic, and he obliged her,  
shrugging it over his head.

Now her sensitive fingers could feel each ridge and knot.

She rubbed and kneaded, working over the shoulders, and down the back to  
the scapulae. Fingertips pushing in, thumbs and knuckles digging out the  
stubborn kinks.

He groaned with relief as her hands worked, muscles softening and body  
relaxing under her touch. She moved up to the back of his neck, stroking  
and pressing, up under his long dark hair to the nape. Then she moved onto  
the scalp, gently circling her fingers over the whole head. His eyes were  
closed now, and he leaned back in the chair, long legs relaxed and arms  
loose. She changed to a softer motion, lightly stroking his long hair back  
from his forehead. Her hands trailed down now, fingertips feather light,  
behind the ears to the neck, and she gathered up his sleek hair into one  
hand, and lifted it, bending her head to gently kiss the back of his long  
neck.

And she smiled to herself as she remembered how she had wanted to do this  
the very first time she saw him.

 

 

[If you are over 18 and want to see what happened next, please refer to:

The Standard Bearer - Extra Scenes. Scene 3: The Student Becomes the  
Master]


	18. Stay With Me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

“I do not like that you do this.”

“I know, Elrond.” Gil busied herself collecting the papers she would need.  
“Nor do I like doing it.”

“Then why must you?”

“We have been through this.” She sighed exasperatedly. “There is a spy in  
the camp. It is the only explanation for the Enemy’s unerring ability to  
attack us at our weakest points. This prisoner may hold vital information,  
and he must be interrogated.”

“But why are you taking this one personally,” His voice was annoyed, almost  
petulant, “instead of leaving it to the orderlies as before?”

“Because firstly, I cannot always ask them to do a task which I myself  
will not undertake, and secondly,” her face was grim, “given where Lord  
Brithiar picked him up, he is quite likely to have the information that we  
need.”

He came up behind her, sliding his arms about her waist. “You are a very  
stubborn woman!”

“We have been through that also.” She smiled, twisting her head to look up  
at him.

“Is Anárion bringing the prisoner here?”

“Yes, a room has been prepared.” She looked troubled for a moment, then  
straightened, and turned to face him, “Will you be here?”

“Yes,” he nodded, “Or next door with the others.”

“I hope I shall not have to be too long.”

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, and she turned and called for her  
assistant.

The youth ducked awkwardly under the lintel, his long limbs gangling, the  
fringe of dark hair falling into eyes now higher than her own.

“Are we ready, my lady?”

“Yes, Mardil.” She gave him the papers to carry, picked up her cloak and  
led the way out the door.

 

 

The room was dark. The only light from the lamp on the table. The prisoner  
was seated in a chair, hands and feet bound, a cloth gag twisted into his  
mouth. Lord Brithiar and Sergeant Gillow had been assigned by Anárion to  
oversee his custody, and they stood in the shadows looking on. Gil sat in a  
chair on the opposite side of the table to the captive, Mardil at her  
shoulder.

The prisoner was a man. His age probably not much more than her own. His  
face was gaunt and his eyes dark with a haunted depth.

She stared intently at him, without speaking, for a long while. The man’s  
eyes shifted and roamed. She motioned silently to Brith to remove his gag.  
He gasped, moving his mouth and tongue with relief.

“What is your name?” her voice was expressionless.

He tried to speak but succeeded only in giving a dry gasp. He coughed,  
harshly, “Water,” he rasped.

She motioned to Mardil, and he placed a cup of water in front of her. The  
man eyed it greedily, lifting his hands, bound together at the wrist,  
towards it.

She sat perfectly still. Forcing herself not to feel anything, not to show  
anything. After a little time he dropped his hands listlessly to the table  
and his head drooped. She pushed the cup over to him.

He hesitated before taking it, looking up at her for permission. By the  
stars, how she hated this. She nodded curtly. He grasped the cup and drank  
thirstily, draining it quickly.

She waited until he had lowered the cup, cradling it between his two hands.

“What is your name?”

He looked down at the table, twisting the cup awkwardly, his face writhing  
with indecision.

‘He looks so thin,’ she thought, ‘their food must be getting very low.’

“Please.” His voice was tortured, “Please, may I have some more water.”

She hardened her ears to his plea. “What is your name?”

He looked down again, his mouth moving silently.

“Speak up.”

He whispered again, and she leaned forward to catch the words.

He struck out, the slim knife awkward but firm between his two hands. The  
blade entered her left shoulder, lodging there. She leapt up and back,  
crying out sharply in pain and surprise, knocking over her chair. Dark  
blood soaked into her tunic.

Brith was instantly in motion, his sword flashing, felling the assassin.

Mardil flew to her side, concern naked on his young face.

“My lady?!”

“It’s alright,” she gasped, “It’s only in the shoulder, it.....” She frowned  
and stumbled, reeling. Her breath rasped and she fell heavily to the floor,  
twitching.

“Poison!” shouted Gillow, kneeling beside her and tugging out the blade.  
Blood spilled slowly after it. Mardil sprinted for the door.

“What can we do?” asked Brith intensely, wiping his weapon and sheathing it  
quickly.

Gil’s limbs trembled, sweat broke out on her skin, her breathing harsh.

“I don’t know!” Gillow’s voice was frantic.

Elrond burst into the room, followed by her page, and pushing Brith out of  
the way, dropped to his knees beside her.

“Gil!” He took her in his arms.

Her breath was fast and ragged, her skin clammy and her body racked with an  
awful shuddering. “Where’s the knife?” he cried.

Gillow held it out to him.

He took it and held it to his nostrils. “Wolfbane!” He flung it away.

“Gil!”

Her breath was weaker now. “So cold,” she rasped, shaking uncontrollably,  
skin ashen and lips dry.

Mardil thrust a cloak at him, and Elrond wrapped it round her.

“Stay with me!” He clasped a hand to her face, his eyes intent on hers.

Her pupils were dark and dilated in the lamplight.

“Can’t see....”

Halmir appeared by his side, Elrond’s casket of medicines in his hands.

“Oneberry.” The Elf-Lord’s voice was urgent, “A single pinch, in wine.”

Her eyes glazed, and a look of great fear came over her face, “My love...” a  
scraping whisper, “The shadow....It is upon me...”

“No!” he cried, clutching her, “Stay with me!”

Her breath gurgled out, slowing, fading.

“Breathe!” he cried, a look of anguish on his face, but no sound passed her  
lips. He drew back his hand and the sound of the blow against her face  
shocked the small room. “Breathe!” he commanded. With a terrible rattling  
groan she fought to drag in a breath.

Halmir held out a cup to Elrond, and taking it, he pressed it to her lips.

“Drink, my love.” He whispered to her. “Drink and stay with me.”

She swallowed, gagging and choking, the red liquid spilling over her lips  
and down her neck.

Almost immediately her breathing eased and her body stilled. The warmth  
began to return to her skin. Gently he wiped her face with the edge of the  
cloak. Her eyes cleared, focusing on him briefly, “Elrond,” she murmured,  
before drifting into a deep sleep. He sighed aloud with relief and rocked  
her in his arms. Beside him Mardil was weeping openly, Gillow’s arm about  
his shoulders.

 

 

Gildinwen had never thought that she would find her cramped room welcoming,  
but after three weeks in the hospital it felt surprisingly good to be back.

Elrond solicitously helped her off with her cloak. The wound to her  
shoulder was healing but stiff. The arm would never be as it was. She sat  
on the bed with a slow sigh. “Well,” she looked around, smiling though her  
face was thin, shadows dark beneath the eyes, “this almost feels like  
coming home.”

“Is that so surprising?” asked Elrond, pouring a cup of wine for her, “You  
have lived here for six years.”

She looked up at him with dismay, “No, surely it cannot be so long as  
that?”

He smiled his confirmation as he handed her the wine.

She shook her head disbelievingly, “It is just as well we did not know that  
when we first came here, we would never have believed it possible to  
survive so long in this forsaken place.”

He settled himself in the chair opposite her, stretching out his long legs,  
and cradling his cup in his hands. “I could never have done it without  
you.” His voice was soft, and his eyes tender.

She smiled at him, a little sadly. “Nor I you.”

He frowned, “You look tired, my love. Are you sure you are up to this  
evening? I am certain Lord Gil-galad will understand if you do not feel  
like attending.”

“I am fine,” her voice was adamant. “Some music and storytelling are just  
what I need.” She patted her flanks where her tunic now hung loose, “Not to  
mention some good food. Besides,” her eyes shone with anticipation, “I have  
not forgotten that you promised to play tonight if I was well enough to  
come.”

 

 

Numerous guests were crowded into Gil-galad’s council chamber, and many  
friendly faces greeted Gil when she entered.

“Welcome, Lady Gildinwen,” Lord Gil-galad’s voice was formal but there was  
no mistaking the warmth in it. “I am most pleased that you are among us  
again.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” She bowed, “It is good to be back.”

A soft touch on her arm announced Anárion, his face troubled. “I am indeed  
glad that you have returned, and wish to say how sorry I am for what  
happened.”

“Why should you be sorry, my lord?” she frowned, confused.

“It was my men who had charge of that prisoner, it was my responsibility to  
protect you and I failed.”

“Nay, my lord.” She spoke firmly, “We are at war, and all face danger  
together, no man can be everywhere at once, or see everything.” She looked  
up at him, “I hope that you have not held Brith and Gillow to account for  
what happened. It was as much my fault as any, I should have known better  
than to get so close.” Her voice slowed as she remembered.

“You are generous,” he smiled, “as always.”

She shook her head, tiredly, “And besides, Mardil is your man, and if not  
for his quick thinking.....”

Familiar voices from the direction of the doorway caused them to look up.  
Elendil and Isildur entered the room, animation on their faces and  
greetings on their tongues.

“How has he been of late?” she asked Anárion.

He nodded slowly, pursing his lips, “He has flung himself into the war. I  
would not say it has helped him forget, but he knows that our victory must  
come before any other concern. For if we win not through, all will be  
lost.”

“Gil!” It was Galeria. Her face smiling beneath concerned eyes. “You look  
tired.”

“I am a little,” Gil replied, “but nothing some wine and good music will  
not cure.”

“You must get plenty of rest.” Galeria’s voice was firm, “The effects of  
wolfbane can last many weeks, and your shoulder injury itself would be a  
cause for concern.”

Gildinwen smiled, “I promise to go straight home to bed once the evening is  
over.”

Now that the last of the guests had arrived and been seated, the musicians  
took their places, Elrond among them.

“Will you do me the honour of sitting with me, my lady?” asked Anárion,  
holding out an arm politely.

She looked over at the table where Galeria had been seated. Glorfindel and  
her brothers were laughing and joking.

Galeria groaned, “They are being particularly boisterous tonight. I think  
you would be wise to accept Lord Anárion’s kind offer, it will be less  
exhausting.”

Gil smiled fondly, and turned to the man in question, “I shall be honoured,  
my lord.” She took his arm gratefully.

 

 

Never mind how many times Gildinwen heard the Elves sing, she always forgot  
just how beautiful their voices were. Songs of the land of Valinor, odes to  
ancient heroes, ballads of eternal love and stirring tales of battle and  
victory.

Throughout all Elrond was silent, but at last he stepped forth and a hush  
fell on the company. In his hand his harp was still wrapped, and as he  
placed it on his knee he spoke softly to it, a whisper that none could  
hear, “I had not thought ever to uncover thee in such a place, but my love  
is snatched from beneath the shadow of death, and I would ask you to give  
voice for it.”

He drew off the cover, and among both Elves and Men the silence became yet  
more still, for this was the Harp of Maglor. He who had been among the  
greatest of the singers, and at whose knee Elrond had learned. For a long  
minute he sat, the silver strings waiting, then his fingers touched them  
and the very air came to life.

Starting softly, the notes touched both the ears and the heart, bearing  
away the listener, each on his own tide, each to his own secret shore.  
Gildinwen felt from them such a touch of love that tears came unbidden to  
her eyes. The sound so fragile, so utterly beautiful that she scarce dared  
to draw breath lest it be disturbed. As the music rose, she was lifted,  
borne upwards, a wind of feeling beneath the wings of song. A great peace  
came on her, a oneness, a completeness. As the notes continued to soar  
there came a yearning, a longing, to drink the music into her heart and  
soul, to become part of it. Then the finale, the chords piercing her with  
love and loss as they grew and faded, each more achingly lovely than the  
last, brief and beautiful as snowflakes in the sun. And at the end she felt  
as though she had passed beneath a mountain waterfall to emerge clean and  
awake.

 

 

She was very tired indeed when they returned at last to her quarters, and  
even more amazed to find Mardil bent over the table, hard at work.

He looked up in surprise as they entered, and hastily rose to his feet,  
“Forgive me, my lady.” He apologised, offering her the chair, “I did not  
realise it was so late.”

She waved her hand in dismissal, as Elrond guided her to the seat. “Do not  
worry, Mardil.” She picked up the document he had been studying. “Anything  
interesting?”

“Yes, indeed!” he nodded animatedly, “I have decoded the words, a new  
variation on the Dinwar cipher,” he added proudly, “But I think the message  
itself is a code.”

She lifted the paper and read:

‘The defence of the western wall has revealed a weakness in the keystone.’

“How very intriguing.” She picked up the sheet he had been scribbling on to  
examine his notes, but Elrond snatched it from her hand.

“That is quite enough.” He said sternly, thrusting the papers at Mardil,  
“Take these, young sir, and yourself, off to bed, and let your mistress get  
some rest.”

Mardil retreated sheepishly out the door, and Elrond turned to her. “And as  
for you...”

He lifted her gently and carried her over to the bed. Setting her down upon  
it, he gently took her feet, one by one, and slipped off her shoes. Then he  
reached up to unfasten her robe, but she stopped him.

“I’m cold,” she said, assailed by a creeping doubt.

“Come then,” he pushed the blankets back and she lay down. He dimmed the  
lamp, and settled himself beside her, taking her in his arms, and drawing  
the coverlets about them.

“Is that better?” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her, and holding  
her close.

She pillowed her head against his chest but made no reply.

He pressed his lips against her, “Oh, Gil.” He murmured, “I have missed  
holding you so much.” He stroked his hand over her hair, and softly down  
the side of her face. It came away wet.

“My love,” his voice was tender, “what is it?”

She buried her head in the pillow, “Nothing,” her voice was muffled.

“Gil,” he coaxed, touching her lightly on the shoulder, “Whatever is the  
matter?”

Still she did not reply, unable to stop her tears from leaking out.

“Come,” his voice was gently pleading, “you must tell me.”

She turned her face towards him, cheeks wet, hardly able to explain the  
sadness that was on her, “I fear.... “ her voice tailed off, and she turned  
away from him.

“What, my heart? What is it you fear?” His strong arms were about her  
again, “Tell me. I will keep you safe.”

“I fear..” her whisper only just above silence, “that I am now so changed  
that you will... will...no longer...”

“Oh, foolish woman.” He turned her to face him, and traced a hand over her  
face, “Yes, you do look a little different.” He ran a hand gently over her  
bandaged shoulder, and down her back, the shoulder blade and ridge of the  
spine prominent under his fingers, “and you feel different, but your beauty  
is more than these things, and it remains.” He pressed his face against her  
hair, “You smell the same.”

She smiled despite herself.

He touched a long finger to her chin, and tipped her head up, bringing his  
sensitive lips to kiss hers, lingering gently. “You taste the same.” He  
kissed her again, softly over the eyes and face, each caress chasing away a  
little more of the fear. “On a summer’s day the clouds chase and play  
across the blue, but their changing does not make the sky less beautiful. A  
tree will bud, bloom, fruit and fade to gold with the seasons, and it is  
all these different faces that together make the one, wonderful whole. The  
beauty that one sees with the eye is such a small part of what you are to  
me. You are every look you have ever given me, every word you have spoken,  
each touch, each kiss, every precious moment that we have had together, and  
all those to come. You are the dreams, the thoughts, the hopes, the joy and  
the love, that you awoke in me, and that we have shared every day  
together.”

Her face was wet again, but this time the tears were of happiness, and he  
bent to taste them. “Come, my love,” his voice was welcoming, “Sleep again  
in my arms, for they, and my dreams, have been empty without you.”

She laid her head on his chest again, and closed her eyes. “My beautiful  
dreamer.” she whispered, then, “Elrond?”

“Yes, little sleeper?”

“The herb that you gave me, the antidote to the poison?”

“Oneberry?”

“Yes.” He could hear the sleepy smile in her voice, “In Lamedon, it goes by  
the name of True-Love.” [3]

 

 

The lamp was guttering when Gildinwen awoke. Starting from her sleep with a  
cry. She sat up, looking round her, confused, her face full of trouble, and  
her heart sore. She fought to push away the sorrow that threatened to  
engulf her.

“Gil,” His voice was all quiet concern as he reached out to her, “What is  
it?”

“Elrond?” she touched his face, reassuring herself, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, my love.” He was puzzled, “I am fine. Is it a dream that has troubled  
you so?”

Relief swept over her. Just a dream. She felt the fear and sadness subside,  
all but a sharp splinter that remained, cold and unyielding in her heart.  
“Yes, yes. A dream.”

“What was it?”

She frowned, touching her forehead, “I...I do not know. It is gone now.” She  
shook her head to try and clear it, but she could remember nothing, only  
the shadow of sorrow on her heart remained.

She laid down again.

“Hush.” He stroked her hair and back, soothing her. Gradually she  
quietened, and

slept once more.

 

 

 

 

[3] Paris Quadrifolia, known as Herb Paris, Oneberry or True-Love is  
traditionally thought to be an antidote to poison, especially Aconites  
(Wolfsbane), but it should be noted that there is no scientific proof for  
this, and the herb itself is considered a poison.


	19. Star of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Gil sighed noisily as she contemplated the litter of papers on her table.  
She had been through everything, time and again, but she still had no idea  
who the spy might be. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter about her,  
the year was growing old, soon it would be mid-winter. Outside a wet sleet  
fell relentlessly from the pitiless sky.

She turned her attention to the well-thumbed message that had come in the  
night she had returned from the hospital. This was not any better. Despite  
weeks of theories and postulation, they were no nearer to understanding the  
meaning. She tossed it down impatiently. She was fed up. Nothing had come  
out of the Dark Tower for weeks. No information, no sorties of soldiers,  
not even a solitary arrow. Now the endless rain and enforced inactivity  
were taking their toll all over the camp. Fights and quarrels were rife. It  
was almost enough to make you wish for a trebuchet attack to relieve the  
monotony.

A wet noise at the door announced Mardil, and he entered, shaking the water  
from his cloak like a puppy.

“Good morning.” She smiled at him.

“My lady.” He sketched a bow before bringing his satchel over to the table.  
He opened it to take out the messages that had come in overnight. “It’s  
cold in here.” He looked round, “Why haven’t you lit the brazier?”

She wrinkled her nose, “I can’t stand the smoke. All things considered I’d  
rather be cold than blind.” She sniffed slightly, “Anything interesting  
from last night?”

“Yes, there was an arrow message from the small North tower.”

Gildinwen perked up. This was more like it. The Alliance had one or two  
spies of their own in Barad-dûr, and attaching a message to an arrow and  
shooting it into their camp was the usual method of delivery. “It’s been  
some time since we’ve had a message through from there.”

“Yes,” Mardil nodded, “Several weeks since the last one.”

“Let’s have a look at it then.” She wiped her nose surreptitiously on the  
hem of her cloak. Elf-Lords, it seemed, did not supply their retinue with  
handkerchiefs. ‘Probably because Elves never catch colds,’ Gil thought  
ruefully to herself.

He dug out the message and handed it to her.

“The cipher looks true.” She said, holding it up to the lamp. “And the hand  
is the same.”

Mardil peered over her shoulder, muttering under his breath as he tried to  
decipher the code. “Here,” she passed it over to him with another sniff,  
“You take it.”

“Thanks.” He fished in his pocket, “And you’d better take this.” Grinning  
he handed her a large red handkerchief.

It took him only a few minutes to complete the translation, and his face  
was serious as he passed it to her.

“Well,” she said grimly, reading swiftly. “It was only a matter of time.”  
She rose to her feet. “I must take this to Lord Gil-galad without delay.”

Mardil face was animated, “So we’re going to war again.”

Gil gave a rueful grin, “It certainly looks like it.”

She swung her cloak over her shoulders, “Mardil.” Her voice was deadly  
serious. “Not a word about this, do you hear? Not to anyone.”

“Yes, my lady.” He nodded firmly, and she ducked out into the rain.

 

 

Lord Gil-galad was seated at his council table, flanked by Elrond and  
Círdan.

“My lords,” she bowed shortly and approached the table, handing the  
message, along with its translation, to the Elven King.

He looked at it frowning. “How reliable is this?”

“The cipher is one of ours, and it is correct. Other messages that we have  
received from him have proved to be reliable.”

“And the translation,” he looked at the writing, “it is by young Mardil. Do  
you trust it?”

“As if I had done it myself, my lord.”

He nodded, and sat back in his chair. “It seems that Sauron has finally had  
enough of our siege.” He allowed himself a slow smile, “He plans to try and  
break out.”

The two warriors were instantly alert.

“When, my lord?” cried Elrond.

“It is to be the next moonless night of this month.” He looked over to  
where Gildinwen was already consulting the calendar.

“Eight days time, my lord.”

“Good.” Gil-galad’s voice was strong. “That gives us time to prepare.”

“What else does it say?” asked Círdan.

“It will be from the North Gate,” replied Gil-galad.

The Elf nodded his white head seriously, “We will need to start moving  
soldiers up immediately.”

“Yes,” Gil-galad agreed, “but it must be done with great secrecy, else he  
will know that his plan is uncovered.” He turned to Gil, “Have messages  
sent to Elendil and Anárion, I am calling a council for tonight.”

“At once, my lord.” She hastened to obey.

 

 

Elendil and Isildur arrived shortly after sunset. Anárion was seated  
already. Besides them, and the Elves who had been with Gil-galad that  
morning, only Glorfindel and Master Farin were added. The spectre of the  
spy had grown large, and no risk could be taken that he might discover  
their plan.

The council chamber was warm and smoky from the braziers in the corners,  
and filled with the smell of damp wool and sweat.

“My lords.” Gil-galad’s sonorous voice cut through the chatter and  
speculation. “You are welcome.”

A ripple of acknowledgement ran around the table.

“Today, a message has been received from inside Barad-dûr.”

Surprise registered on most of the faces. Few were aware that the Alliance  
had spies inside the Tower.

“It bears the hallmarks of a trusted source, and we believe it to be  
genuine.”

The silence of expectation hung as heavy as the pall of smoke.

“Sauron is planning to try and break the siege.”

A surge of excited muttering was quickly quelled as they turned their  
attention once more to the Elven King.

“On the next moonless night, in eight days time, he will attempt to break  
out through the North gate and take the road to the Isenmouthe.”

“‘Attempt’ is all he will do,” growled Isildur, with a wolfish smile.

“Indeed, my lord,” replied Gil-galad, “That is what we must ensure.”

He turned to the maps. “I propose that the Elves are moved up to help  
buttress Elendil’s men to the West, and that Isildur’s soldiers do the same  
to the East.”

He turned to Anárion. “It is important that the West gate not be left  
undefended, and I would ask you to take that task, inglorious as it is.”

The man in question nodded grimly, “I am at your command, my lord.”

“Elendil?”

The King nodded, “Aye, Gil-galad, it is a good plan. Will you move up the  
horses and archers also?”

“Yes.” The High King confirmed, “All that can be spared. But preparations  
must be as secret as possible.” He sighed, “We believe there to be a spy  
among us, and we have not yet been able to identify him.”

“A spy?” Isildur’s voice was angry.

“Yes, my lord, sad though it is to think it.”

Elendil’s reply was more thoughtful. “We should not move the troops until  
the night falls then, that way there will be little time to send a  
warning.”

“Then it is so agreed?” asked the Elven King.

“It is agreed.” Elendil replied for the Men. Master Farin nodded silently  
for the dwarves.

“Good.” Gil-galad pushed back his chair. “Now, I hope you will all join me  
for some wine?”

Grins of assent greeted this welcome suggestion, and at Gil-galad’s signal,  
Gildinwen summoned Luinil to see to the guests.

Her head aching, she excused herself, and wrapping her cloak close about  
her body, she made her way home through the sleet and rain.

 

 

‘Some hot tea,’ she thought as her feet squelched and slid in the mud. ‘And  
some dry clothes.’ She would have dearly loved a bath, but she tried to put  
the image of the steaming water from her mind. ‘Six years,’ she thought,  
‘how much longer can it take?’

The sound of raised voices brought her up short just as she reached the  
door.

“Get out!” Mardil’s cry was high and angry.

“Not until you’ve told me what I want to know!” the low voice was menacing  
\- and recognisable.

She flung open the door to find Falcred pinning her assistant against the  
wall. Blood trickled from Mardil’s lip, and his face was white around the  
mouth.

“What is going on here?” her voice was quiet, but filled with a slow fury.

Falcred released Mardil and stepped back.

“Well?” Gildinwen looked from one to the other, holding her anger at bay.

Mardil looked embarrassed. Falcred’s blue eyes were defiant, his jaw set.

“Mardil!” she snapped.

“He...he...wanted to know about you.”

“Yes?”

“And...and..” his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Out with it, lad!”

“He wanted to know about you and Lord Elrond.”

“Is that so?” She stressed every word, as she turned her eyes, flashing  
with rage, on Falcred. “Mardil, you may go.”

He left hurriedly.

In two steps she had crossed the room, and grabbed the man by the front of  
his jerkin. “Now hear this!” she hissed, her eyes inches from his,  
“Whatever you want to know, you ask me to my face. Do you hear?”

He met her look with a sullen silence.

“Well?” she spat.

Still no reply.

“Get out!” she pushed him away disgustedly, and he stumbled towards the  
door.

“Gil.” He straightened up, his face in shadow. “Listen to me. Please.  
I...love you. I don’t even care if...if..,” he couldn’t bring himself to say  
the words, “I still......”

“No, Falcred.” Her voice was tight. “You listen to me. Really listen. I am  
not going to accept your offer. Not now. Not ever. Do you understand?” she  
sighed wearily, “You don’t really love me. It’s this wretched war. Once  
it’s over you’ll go home to Lossarnach, marry a lady of Gondor and forget  
you ever knew me.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “You’re wrong. I’ll never forget you.” He opened  
the door to leave, turning briefly towards her, “And you will be mine.”

 

 

Seething with exasperation she stripped off her sodden cloak and flung it  
over the chair. The room was freezing. “Stubborn, bone-headed fool.” She  
muttered to herself, sneezing as she fumbled to light the brazier. “Typical  
man!”

She filled the kettle and set it to boil while she removed her wet shoes  
and changed into a padded robe.

Sitting back on the bed, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her  
cold feet tucked into dry socks, she sipped the hot tea. Her headache began  
to recede a little, but the general feeling of melancholy was more  
difficult to shake off. ‘I wish this was all over,’ she thought. ‘So I  
could get out of this awful place.’ But that started her thinking about the  
future, and she felt the shadow of the dream creep up again.

She did not notice Elrond enter until his hand caressed her head, and his  
soft voice spoke her name.

She looked up to see his concerned face, “Are you alright?” He took a seat  
next to her, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulder. She leaned into  
him gratefully.

“You are sad tonight, my love.”

“Just a little melancholy. It will pass.” She handed him the empty cup, and  
he sat it on the table.

“Any particular reason?”

“No,” she smiled slightly, shaking her head. “Only the war, and this  
miserable place.” She sighed. “When did I last see anything green and  
growing, a tree or a flower?” She looked round at him, “I have never even  
seen you in the sunshine, only under this dark sky. My life is passing  
while we sit here, waiting. My youth fading with each wasted year.”

His arm tightened about her, and his lips brushed her hair.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “I think I’ve never really known myself. All my  
life has been duty and taking care of others. I’ve never questioned it,  
never thought about what I wanted, or made any choice of my own. The path  
was always clearly laid out for me, and it never occurred to me not to  
follow it. No question but that I would heft the responsibility of family,  
tradition and house onto my shoulder and march off down that road of duty -  
stalwart and uncomplaining.

“I have sailed the sea of life in a rudderless ship, doing no more than  
cling on as I am tossed this way and that. I have never once tried to take  
control of my fate.”

“That is not true, Gil.” Turning towards her, he took her face in his hands  
and looked deep into her eyes. “When you sailed out of the night and into  
my life, you changed it forever.”

“Nay, my lord.” She shook her head. “Even when you came in sight, I did  
not steer a course, merely cried out as you passed. With love you lashed my  
fate to yours, but if you cut me loose I would be purposeless again.”

He smiled down at her. “In the Misty Mountains, and on the highest slopes  
of Imladris, there is a flower called Elrhîw [4]. It is a small, white  
bloom, often overlooked when compared with more showy blossoms. But it  
flowers in the darkest month of winter, when all else is bare, and is so  
hardy that it will stand any frost and snow.” He kissed her on the  
forehead, lingeringly, and whispered. “This will soon be over, my love.  
Sauron grows desperate, he cannot last much longer.” He clasped his long  
arms around her and held her close. “Then it will be time to talk of the  
future.”

 

 

That night she awoke once more with eyes wet and heart tight. She tried to  
keep it from Elrond, but he was not fooled.

“Gil.” He whispered, stroking her hair. “The dream again?”

She sighed into his chest, holding onto him. Why did it torment her so,  
every night? What was it trying to tell her? But she knew. The hard answer  
was there, deep in her heart, she just did not want to face it. ‘I have not  
the courage for this.’ But she must, for his sake, she must.

“Why will you not tell me?” he asked softly, sadly.

“I will, my love.” She tightened her arms about him, “When it is time.”

His lips were soft against her hair as he comforted her.

Sleep would not return, however, and she turned to talk.

“Elrond?”

“Yes, little sleeper?”

“May I ask you something?”

“You may.”

“You, and your brother, you are the Peredhil, the half-Elven.”

“Yes.”

“And you were given the choice, each of you, as to which kindred you would  
belong to?”

“That is correct.”

“Why did you choose to stay with the Elves, and your brother to go with  
humankind?”

A long, long silence.

“Ah, Gil.” He whispered, “You ask a question that touches the very heart of  
who I am, and makes me look in my secret places.” His arms tightened about  
her.

 

 

“Elros worshipped our father, Eärendil.” His voice was sad and fond. “I  
well remember when he came home to see his youngest son, born while his  
father was far on the Sea, and already taking his first steps. That was a  
time of great rejoicing and happiness. We watched from the dockside as the  
Vingilot sailed in. Shining from afar, she skipped over the waves, the  
light of the stars in her sails. At the bow, my father stood, proud and  
glorious, his hair flying in the wind, his legs firm on the leaping deck, a  
great adventurer returning in glory.” He smiled to remember it.

“Mother stood by me, her delicate beauty illuminated by the love on her  
face. Her eyes dancing with joy, her hand gripping mine tightly. Elros  
squirmed with excitement on her hip.

“Before the ship had even docked my father sprang to the quayside with a  
great leap, running up to gather us all into his strong arms. Kissing my  
mother, holding her by the waist and whirling her around. Hugging Elros and  
tossing him, squealing with delight, into the air. The days that followed  
were a happy blur of stories, presents, laughter and play.” His voice  
lowered, “It was the only time we were all together, and it was not to  
last.

“My father could never resist the call of the Sea. Even my mother’s love  
was not enough to keep him on land for more than a few weeks. Soon he was  
restless and longing, and she, with tears and recrimination, only hastened  
the parting. I alone took Elros to the quay to watch him depart, she  
remained shut in her chamber, weeping in the dark.

“When my father was gone, Mother would spend her days on the clifftops,  
looking out to sea, longing for his return.” A smile of sadness came to his  
face, “When I was younger she would take me - at first it was good,  
watching the birds and the waves, but it would get cold, and I would be  
hungry and still we would stay, even until night had fallen.

“When I was older, and Elros was born, she would often leave us alone in  
our quarters, not knowing where she was. When she returned I never knew how  
she would be, sometimes loving and gentle, wanting to play with us, at  
others cold and distant, heeding neither my tearful face, nor the hungry  
cries of my brother.” His lips were tight with old sorrow, “I learned not  
to ask for anything.”

Unable to speak, her heart aching to comfort him, yet knowing she could  
never wipe away the pain, Gildinwen took his hand in hers, and pressed her  
lips to it.

“On the day that the Sons of Fëanor attacked Sirion, we were, all three of  
us, together at home. It was a good day and Mother had been telling us a  
story. When we heard the shouting in the street, that the enemy was upon  
us, she took the Silmaril from its box and hung its chain about her neck.

“We ran, through the streets, and up the familiar path to the clifftops.”  
His voice was edgy now, and Gil’s heart overflowed into her eyes to hear  
it.

She sat up and took him in her arms, cradling his head against her.

“I tried so hard to keep up, but she ran too fast for me. Elros was so  
heavy and the ground so rough. Many times I fell, bloodying hand and knee,  
and each time I regained my feet, she was further away.” He tightened his  
arms about her, “I cried out to her again, and again. ‘Mother! Wait for  
us!’ But she heeded me not.

“The soldiers caught us easily. She was brought to bay on the clifftop.  
Maglor held me in front of him, a knife to my throat, and he called to her.  
‘Give it up, save your sons.’” His voice was little more than a whisper  
now.

“But she would not. Sparing us no word, not even a glance, she turned and  
threw herself from the cliff into the sea.

“Maglor’s astonishment was so great that the blade fell from his nerveless  
hand. He sank to his knees in front of me, his eyes filled with tears of  
guilt and pity, and tore his hair in remorse, begging my forgiveness.” He  
grew wistful. “I heard later that Mother did not die. She was changed into  
a bird by Ulmo, and flew over the sea to join my father. But they sailed to  
Valinor, and never came to look for us.” He pressed his head against her,  
and she kissed it, holding him closely. Trying to comfort the lost child  
deep inside.

“We went with Maglor, and life was very different to what we had known. We  
had a nurse, and a tutor. Structure and security. Meals at regular times,  
and always the same warm, safe bed to sleep in. I learned to read, and play  
music.” His smile was happier now.

“Elros was captivated with tales of our father. The human spirit of  
adventure was strong in him. For me, I remembered things as they truly  
were, and in honour of the one who had been most like a father to me, I  
chose to be of the Elves.”

 

 

[4] Star of Winter


	20. At the North Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Outside the wind was getting up as Gildinwen readied herself for the march  
to the gates of Barad-dûr. The rain had been heavy all day, dark clouds  
scouring the sky, and icy winds driving in from the north. Now it looked to  
be getting even worse. She shivered as she tucked thick trousers into  
sturdy boots and fastened them tightly. It was going to be a miserable  
night. On the table swordbelt and blade lay waiting, a warm cloak flung  
over the top. She stood to fasten on her breastplate, the fine Elven  
craftsmanship thankfully light. She struggled to tug the strap tight over  
the right shoulder, her left arm not quite supple enough to reach.

A rush of wind and rain announced a visitor, and she looked up to see  
Elrond enter. He was dressed for battle, armour and cloak, girded for the  
fray with blade and bow. In one hand he held a small wooden box.

“Here,” he said, placing the box on the table, “let me.”

She turned and he quickly fastened the remaining strap. He lifted her thick  
braid to lay a kiss lightly behind her ear. “My brave woman.” His voice  
rippled teasingly, but she could hear the undertow of concern.

“My warrior Elf,” she riposted with a laugh.

“Come,” he said, guiding her towards the bed and seating her on it. He  
pulled the chair forward to sit in front of her. His face was alight with a  
secret mischief.

“I have a gift for you.”

She looked up, a look of bashful delight spreading across her face.

He retrieved the box from the table and placed it in her hands.

She sat for a moment, cradling it with joy and wonder, then slowly lifted  
the lid, the elf’s eyes watching expectantly.

“Oh, Elrond.” She whispered, with tears in her eyes, “It is lovely.” She  
placed the lid on the floor and lifted the box to look more closely. The  
dark green, waxy leaves of a small plant nestled against damp soil, a  
single bud just tipped with white, lifted its head from the centre. “Is it  
truly an Elrhîw?”

“Yes indeed, although this one came not from Imladris, which is too far,  
but from the White Mountains.”

She looked up with astonishment, “You had this brought all the way from  
Gondor, just for me?”

He smiled fondly, “You said you wanted to see something green and growing.”

“Oh, my love.” She wiped her cheek, “Thank you.”

“Sit it in the light, and it will bloom in a day or two.”

She stood and cleared a space on the table for the plant, setting it where  
it would catch the morning sun.

She turned to him, as he stood.

“Thank you. I do not think I have ever seen anything more beautiful. “

“I have.” He smiled at her, lifting a finger to stroke her face.

Filled with happiness, she reached up to place her arms about his neck, and  
he held her as close as his war dress allowed. One kiss was all he would  
allow himself, before duty called. One long kiss.

“Now, my love.” He said, pulling back and disentangling himself. “I must to  
my king.”

She nodded, her eyes shining. “I will along in a little time.”

 

 

Of all the challenges she had faced because of her love of Elrond, this was  
always the most difficult. For her as for him. To go to war and face death  
with the one dearest to you only a few feet away, and to put that love  
aside and let duty take precedence. Not to look at them, not to think about  
what could happen at any moment, but to keep eyes and mind on the appointed  
task. Only afterwards could the fear be acknowledged, the spectre  
confronted and the relief at safe passage be welcomed. So far, always  
relief. She pushed away any other thoughts. Nothing could be gained by  
them.

“My lady! My lady!” Mardil’s voice was urgent as he hurried in the door, a  
howl of wet wind following him.

“What is it?”

“Look!” He produced a damp and stained piece of paper from beneath his  
cloak, and spread it on the table.

The code and the writing were unfamiliar.

“Where did this come from?”

“An enemy was caught trying to smuggle it into our camp.”

“Where is he? Did you find out who it was for?”

Mardil shook his head grimly, “No, he took poison as soon as he was  
discovered.”

“A plague on him.” She cursed. So near, and yet so far. “Where was he  
taken?”

“Near the west gate.”

“Hmm... and the spy Brith picked up the last time?”

He shook his head, “A good mile away.”

She sighed, rubbing her temple, and turned her attention back to the  
letter. The dark letters were meaningless.

From outside the sound of voices and the clash of arms rose through the  
wind and the rain.

She straightened. “I have to go, Mardil.” she said, hastily fastening on  
her belt, and grabbing her cloak. “Make what you can of it, it may be  
important.”

He nodded. “Be safe, my lady.”

She smiled, “And you also.” Then drawing up her hood, she stepped out into  
the storm.

 

 

The wind snatched the door from Gildinwen’s grasp, banging it against the  
wall, and stinging her with an onslaught of unkind rain. She fought to pull  
it closed behind her as she entered Gil-galad’s council chamber, grateful  
to be out of the howling gale. Wiping her wet face, she failed to prevent a  
trickle of water from seeping beneath her armour to soak the neck of her  
tunic.

“He has certainly chosen the night for it!” Anárion’s voice was grimly  
amused.

“Aye,” The High King was more suspicious, “Though it may be more than luck  
brought this storm.”

“Does the One Ring really give him power over the elements?”

“I know not for certain,” replied Gil-galad, “But it is likely, certainly  
this close to the seat of his power.”

Gildinwen shivered, and more than the weather was to blame.

“It will work to our advantage too.” Cirdan, as ever, was the pragmatist.  
“For he will not see us move up.”

“That is true.” nodded Anárion, his grin reflecting the keenness of his  
soldiers to be in action once again.

All the lords were arrayed for battle. Anárion's silver armour gleaming,  
the Elves in green-gold and blue. A clatter of steel and rattle of wood  
sounded, as blades were strapped on, bows strung and shields lifted.

Gil-galad’s countenance was clothed for war, in courage, power and  
ascendance, his bearing regal, his stature mighty and in his eyes, a light  
to lead both Men and Elves into the darkest places. Aeglos was ready in his  
hand, and at his side his battle colours were ready. Elrond stood silently  
by his King, his face grim above the livery of his lord’s house. Only  
Glorfindel was missing, the horses having been sent up during daylight.

“Are your men in place?” Gil-galad asked Anárion.

“Aye, my lord,” he replied, “I am keeping two companies to man the west  
road, the remainder go with Círdan.”

The Elven-King clapped a hand to the Man’s shoulder, meeting his eye with a  
deep look, and a wordless nod.

Anarion reached up a hand to briefly cover that of the Elf-Lord, before  
bowing deeply. “My Lord.”

Gildinwen moved to take her Banner from its place, furling it carefully  
until it should be needed. Tonight she was to go with Círdan, her standard  
to rally Anárion’s men to him. Her cloak, already wet, hung limply from her  
shoulders and Deanor’s blade was a familiar and comforting weight at her  
hip. She carried no shield, since her left arm could no longer bear the  
weight of it, but her eyes were bright and ready, and the mithril band  
shone proudly on her brow.

“Are we ready, my lords?” Gil-galad’s rich voice filled the room.

A chorus of assent.

“Then let us move out, and may this night bring us victory.” He strode  
forth into the storm, head high, heeding neither wind nor rain, his hair  
and cloak streaming behind him, his spear a bright beacon.

 

 

It took them the best part of two hours to reach their positions. Two hours  
of splashing and wading through water, mud and filth. Soaked and buffeted  
by the storm, stumbling and groping through the darkness. They passed many  
soldiers, both Elves and Men, already in place. Crammed together in  
trenches and hides, waiting wet and cold for the call to arms. Gil-galad  
came as a light before them, igniting their courage, lifting their spirits  
and the warmth of his presence radiated back through the lines, heartening  
and rousing the warriors.

The final position was right by the barrier on the North Road. Up ahead  
lookouts were ready placed to give warning when the gates should open.  
Elendil and Isildur were waiting for them, battle eager and hungry, their  
soldiers crouching, alert, in the dugouts to the east of the road. War  
trumpeters and battledrums stood ready to sound the attack.

“My Lords.” Gil-galad greeted his allies with a clasp of his powerful hand.

“Gil-galad.” Elendil’s face shone with a grim light.

“All is ready?”

“Aye.”

“Then now we wait.”

 

 

Wait they did. Crouching shoulder to shoulder in the cold ditches. Gil  
huddled, shivering, between Halmir and Círdan’s squire, her shoulder ached  
with the cold and her feet were numb. Around them the rain lashed, whipped  
into a stinging fury by the wind that snapped and leapt, over and through  
the trenches and shelters. Above, the blackest of clouds twisted and fled  
against the dark sky, drenching them with sheets of icy rain, the noise of  
the storm howling and screaming above the gatehouse and towers of the  
Fortress. No star, no moon, no light to be seen save the reddish glow from  
the fiery pit at the base of the Tower, serving only to lift and darken the  
shadow of the awful citadel.

When the black gates finally opened, the cry of the lookout was almost lost  
amid the wail of the tempest. But the alarum sounded as the messengers of  
death issued forth, and was taken up throughout the camp, alerting and  
readying the troops for the call to attack.

Gil-galad and Elendil leapt up onto the road, crossing in front of the  
barrier, their entourage hard on their heels. Gildinwen loosed the Banner,  
the staff slick with rain and the silk waterlogged, as she slid and skidded  
after Círdan. The same fierce wind that snatched his white hair like a flag  
in the dark night, lifted the heavy folds of the standard, whipping and  
lashing them above her head. Boldly they stood forth - kings, princes and  
noble lords, and behind them the faithful squires and brave warriors of  
their personal household. The war instruments awaited only the signal to  
give the cry to arms and loose a terrible army of Elves and Men.

From out of the howling darkness came the sound of hooves and a drumming of  
many feet. Heart-chilling war cries sounded to the beat of deadly drums,  
and from the sky, lightening cracked, blazing for a long, harsh instant  
over the nightmarish horde pouring down on them. At the head a black and  
terrible horse screamed defiance as he hammered his way down the road, his  
rider a fearsome shadow, darkness flapping about him, his face a pit of  
cold emptiness. The light extinguished with a crash of thunder and he was  
plunged again into the night, only their fearful imagination now could see  
his advance.

“Úlairi.” breathed Halmir from beside her, his face white.

From beside them the wardrums rolled their voices, the trumpets gave a call  
of defiance and a great cry arose as the warriors of the Alliance, weather  
and discomfort forgotten, rose from their cover to roar defiance at  
Sauron’s minions.

Gil-galad himself cut down the mount of the Ringwraith, Aeglos slashing  
open its belly with a single thrust. As the horse fell the Alliance  
soldiers surged forward with a shout, and once more dark and light ebbed  
and flowed over the field of battle.

“Elf-lord!” the shadow hissed, drawing his deadly blade on the High King.

Gil-galad’s face was shining, power in his arms, courage and truth in his  
heart. Wasting no time with words, his great spear flashed, pushing his  
enemy back.

“With me!” Círdan shouted, and they charged up the western side of the  
road, Anárion’s companies at their back. Over their heads a hail of golden  
arrows spat death at the advancing enemy, but still they came, men and  
orcs, howling and spitting, trampling their fallen comrades into the mud.  
Their faces were gaunt, the eyes dark with hate, fear and desperation. Save  
for the unnatural mount of the Ringwraith, no horses or dogs were to be  
seen.

Soon battle was closed, and thought could be given to nothing but the enemy  
in front, his blade hungry for blood. Slash and parry. Attack and riposte.  
Time after time. Slipping and lurching on the foul and filthy ground. Rain  
mixing with blood, sweat and gore. Hack and push. Stab and recoil. Wind  
whipping up the sounds of death and conflict. Fell one, and another steps  
up. Kill him before he kills you. On and on.

Finally the enemy on the west side broke and ran, stopping a little way up  
the road to regroup. Círdan looked round to gather his men.

“My lady Gildinwen!”

The voice was Mardil’s.

She looked round confused, trying to see through the rain swept darkness  
and listen over the tumult of battle.

“My lady!” he was closer now.

“Here!” She shouted.

The Elf-Lord was readying his men for another attack.

Mardil appeared out of the storm, hair plastered to his skull, sodden cloak  
clinging to his shoulders.

“What is it?” she cried.

“The message!” he gasped. “All this!” he gestured about him. “It’s a  
feint!”

Her face blanched.

“The breakout will be by the West gate!”

She grabbed him by the shoulders. “Are you absolutely sure, Mardil?” her  
voice was intense.

“Yes!” he cried, “I’ll stake my life on it.”

“It is all our lives that will be staked on it.” she replied grimly as she  
headed towards Círdan. “My lord!”


	21. At All Cost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

“My lord!” she had to shout to make herself heard above the noise of the  
storm, and the tumult of battle. The army on the west side were in respite  
but Elendil’s men were hard pressed to the east, Gil-galad locked in  
conflict with the wraith.

“What is it?” Círdan whipped round, frowning.

“It is a feint, my lord!” she spoke now in his ear, “A diversion, while  
they try to break out of the west gate.”

“How do you know this?” his face was intense, his mind already racing  
behind his keen eyes.

“A message was recovered earlier this evening, in cipher. My assistant has  
just this moment brought me word of the meaning.”

“Do you trust his ability?”

“Yes, my lord.” Her reply was firm.

He looked over at Gil-galad but the Elven-King was still pinned down.

“By Elbereth.” He swore quietly, “Sauron is a formidable foe.” He called  
for his squire.

“Fetch Glorfindel to me.”

“My lord.” The lad ran off.

Now he summoned a trumpeter. “Sound a rally. To my Elves and the Men of  
Anárion.”

He turned to Gildinwen, “Lift that banner high, let the Men see and  
follow.”

 

 

There was no time to be lost. They must risk a ride across open country to  
reach Anárion as quickly as possible. Mounts were brought for Círdan and  
herself. Glorfindel would take the rest of the cavalry on ahead.

Gildinwen mounted, lifting her banner, beside her Círdan, his squire at his  
back, looked over at his King. Gil-galad thrust at the Nazgûl, Aeglos  
tipped black with blood, forcing his enemy slowly backwards. The wraith was  
far from vanquished, however, his evil sword weaving and flickering. The  
armies of the east still fought fiercely along the north road, the hordes  
of enemy issuing from the north gate showing no sign of easing. The white  
haired Elf’s face was very grim.

“My lady!” It was Mardil. “Let me come with you.”

She thrust out a hand and he climbed up behind her.

Just as she wheeled her horse, ready to ride off, she caught sight of  
Elrond. Standing tall astride the barrier, his mighty bow at work in his  
hand, quiver nearly empty, cloak and hair lashing in the wind, heedless of  
the rain in his face. As if he could feel her look, he glanced round. Their  
eyes met for a single moment. An instant of quiet amid the clamour, a  
heartbeat of love, then she was off. Side by side with Círdan, blades  
drawn, banners flying, Men and Elves rising at their back, weapons ready,  
the flickering lights of torches in their hands. To the right, with a  
thunder to rival that of the sky, Glorfindel’s Elven cavalry pulled away to  
race ahead.

 

 

The storm beat at them from the outside and their fear from within. Círdan  
kept the horses at a stiff trot so that the footsoldiers could keep up.  
They could only hope that Anárion still held, that Glorfindel would arrive  
in time, that their numbers would be enough.

The ground was rough and pitted, treacherous with mud and hidden pitfalls.  
In front of Gildinwen, the white hair of the commander flickered and flew  
in the darkness, his battle standard wild in the hand of his squire. Behind  
them the red light of the torches danced and leapt, reflected in the wet  
armour and keen eyes of a thousand warriors. Shouts of encouragement from  
the Captains, the bark of orders from sergeants and friendly jibes between  
rival companies echoed hearteningly through the thrash of the storm.

A sickle of lightening slashed through the night, illuminating the Tower,  
jagged in the blackness.

Time, time.

Gildinwen felt her blood screaming to charge, her limbs prickling with  
impatience, but still the Elf-Lord held the pace. They must not outrun the  
soldiers. Splashing and spattering, the horses ran through the mud, at  
their backs the tramp of feet through the wet. Overhead the dark sky spat  
flame and roared its anger, while around them the icy rain flew  
mercilessly.

Come on! They must be nearly there by now. What was happening?!

A red glow began to emerge from the blackness. The pits flanking the west  
road.

As they steadily closed the distance, the silhouette of the battle became  
visible against the hellish light. The forces of Mordor, a seething black  
horde, filled the road from the gate to the line, forcing the warriors of  
the Alliance back. Sauron’s troops were still confined to the causeway, but  
they did not need to advance much before they could spill outwards and all  
would be lost. Step by step they inched forward, heedless of the cost.  
Soldier after soldier of the Alliance fell, the line thinning, their blood  
dearly spent in slowing the deadly onslaught, without hope of stopping it.  
In the centre, beneath the banner of the setting sun, Anárion fought like a  
warrior of legend. His bright armour red now with the blood of his enemies,  
holding his men in place by iron example and matchless courage.

As Círdan’s troops laboured towards them, a terrible dark horseman fought  
his way through the line, footsoldiers trampled beneath the slashing hooves  
and cut down by the deadly blade. With a ghoulish screech he urged his  
mount forward, a gloating cry to his followers as he opened the path. A  
shout of dismay rose from the breathless soldiers behind Gil, Mardil’s  
groan of despair loud in her ear.

 

 

From out of the blackness a bright lance arced, piercing the foul chest,  
spitting the wraith, the force of it flinging him backwards out of the  
saddle. A gleaming white horse, mane flying in the wind, legs and flanks  
slathered in mud and sweat, charged out of the wild night, his master’s  
hair a golden beacon to the following cavalry. Leaning down as he raced in,  
Glorfindel gracefully plucked his lance from the corpse, raising it high  
above his head, and lifting a shout of admiration and defiance from the  
throat of every Alliance warrior on the field. The cavalry set to work with  
a vengeance, lances flying, arrows raining down and blades flashing. Seeing  
their allies appear, the defenders took heart, and with a great roar they  
surged forward. Between them, Men and Elves, they managed to stem the  
advance, but barely.

With a cry, Círdan pressed his horse forward to a gallop, a roar of  
defiance rising from the soldiers behind him as they charged. He turned to  
Gildinwen and motioned to her.

“Go on!” he cried, his strong voice reaching through the tempest, “Take the  
Men to their lord!” She nodded. The Elf’s horse sprang away, leading his  
warriors to reinforce Glorfindel. Above her head the Banner was untamed in  
the wind, wet and leaping, as she pushed her horse toward the line.  
Reaching it, the melee was so thick she had to pull up, and from behind her  
the Men surged forward and past, shouting defiant warcries at the enemy,  
and greetings to their hard pressed comrades.

Mardil sprang down from behind her, snatching up a sword from the cold hand  
of one who would no longer need it. She dismounted after him, releasing the  
horse, blade ready, banner tight against hip and shoulder. The battle-weary  
defenders shouted cries of welcome to their fellows. Some, exhausted, fell  
back, to allow the fresh troops to press their advantage. Gil and Mardil  
advanced along with them. Pushing forward through the drenching rain, their  
goal the proud standard of Anárion.

As the reinforcements reached the line, the tide of battle wavered. Gil  
came face to face with a black Númenórean, his face haggard behind his  
visor, hair and clothes slick with water, his sword arm weary. Wasting no  
time she lunged, hacking at him, slashing out, forcing his retreat. Beside  
her, Mardil’s borrowed sword was just as busy, his skill rusty but sound.  
Soon they had reached Lord Anárion, Gil taking a place at his shoulder,  
alongside his own standard bearer. Dispatching another foe with a swing of  
his mighty sword, the prince turned to flash them a grin, teeth white in a  
face grimed in sweat and dirt, water dripping from his helm, the plume  
bedraggled and filthy.

“Welcome!” he cried with gusto, “Now we shall have them.”

The flow was reversed, and the hunter became the hunted as the Alliance  
pushed hard for victory. Back over the bodies of the slain, friend and foe  
alike, they pressed the forces of Mordor. Back up the road, retaking it  
foot by foot, every inch exacting a second blood payment. Filth and gore,  
stinking and foul, underfoot and covering clothes, hair and skin. The noise  
deafening, wind howling, thunder crashing, the screams of battle-locked  
enemies, the clash of steel, the piteous cries of the wounded, man, elf and  
horse. Wind and rain lashed at them, howling around the towers of the  
citadel, hissing and steaming in the hot, red pits flanking the road.

Back, still back, over the tumbled remains of their barricade, till at last  
the foe broke, fleeing to their dark shelter, stampeding across the  
drawbridge, trampling one another in their haste to reach the iron doors.  
As the gate closed behind them, leaving only a litter of dead and wounded  
strewn over the rain and blood-soaked ground, a roar of victory and  
defiance rose from the Alliance. A great wave of sound, bolstered by the  
crash of swords on shields, the thump of Anárion’s wardrummer and the  
exultation of trumpets.

 

 

As the soldiers stood in loud jubilation, the first of the missiles  
screamed down from the tower. Smashed into the victorious army, crushing  
and shattering vulnerable flesh and bone. Sauron’s wrath at being thwarted  
vented in a terrible hail of vengeance. The soldiers fled back down the  
road. Bolts and stones, rocks and fire, a deadly pique, a spiteful revenge.  
Crashing and smashing, crushing helms and breaking bones, showering sparks  
and flaming oil. Black darts stabbed evilly into limbs. Iron bolts like  
spears pinioned bodies writhing to the ground. The warriors ran for the  
safety of their trenches.

Gil’s breath rasped in her chest. Around her men fell, bloody and  
screaming. She forced her legs to move, the muscles burning. Beside her,  
Mardil loped unevenly, a terrible determination on his face. Rocks flew  
about them, whistling and dashing themselves to pieces. Spattering their  
faces with shards, and with other things.

Still they ran. Fifty yards to safety.

Her lungs were burning, her feet like lead in the mud. The banner dragged  
like an anchor on her shoulder. Forty. An iron bolt struck the road in  
front of her. She lurched sideways, stumbling to the ground. A large rock  
split the ground nearby. From behind her she could hear the terrifying  
approach of another. She scrambled to her knees, slipping in the mud. Then  
a hand was under her arm, lifting her up. Anárion. He dragged her along  
till she regained her feet, the Banner, wet and filthy, still clutched in  
her hand. Thirty yards. Whistling and rushing, the nearing missile  
challenged the wind. They ran for the shelter of the trench. Twenty yards.  
The rock hit. A thousand fragments exploded outwards. Gil felt a brief  
sting above her right ear as the force knocked her to the ground. Dazed,  
she lay motionless, one cheek pressed into the mud. Shards and slivers  
showered about her.

 

 

As quickly as it had begun, the savage attack ceased. All was quiet now,  
save only for the storm above and the plaintive cries of the wounded. A  
warm wetness seeped down Gil’s neck, and her hand came away from it red and  
sticky. She rose to her knees to look about. Anárion lay a few yards away.  
She crawled towards him, an icy fear starting to form.

“My lord!” she called.

Silence.

Her heart chilled as she reached him. No. His body was crumpled on the  
ground. No. Blood seeped copiously from beneath the crushed helm. No. Thick  
and dark. No, no.

“My lord!” She grabbed his hand in desperation, in denial, a desolate wail  
rising unbidden from her. She fought to hold back her fear and let the  
healer come forth. Breath? There was none. Blood? She laid a hand to his  
neck but no life beat there.

Only one of his blue eyes was visible in the ruin that was his skull. Empty  
and lifeless. The light that had been the Prince of AnÍ³rien was  
extinguished. Crushed out of the world by the fury of the Dark Lord.

The first of the soldiers appeared. His silent, anguished question answered  
by the tears on her face, even before she shook her head in despair.  
Falling to his knees beside her, his cry of agony summoned his fellows. She  
lifted her hand and closed the sightless eye. A howl of loss went up from  
the gathering warriors, rivalling the wail of the wind. Echoing desolately  
across the field of death, as the grief passed from man to man.

Gil rocked, clutching her arms about herself, the sorrow welling up in her,  
threatening to engulf her. She fumbled with the fastening of her cloak, and  
dragging it off, laid it over him. The very act of covering that face for  
the last time, caused the loss to clutch harder at her throat. Gripping her  
heart in a cruel fist. Never again would those blue eyes sparkle, or the  
smile flash. She cried aloud. Keening her grief to the storm-tossed sky,  
her voice joining the dirge of many.

She felt a hand on her arm and looked round into Falcred’s grief-stricken  
eyes. He spoke no words, offered no comfort, only a sorrow shared. She laid  
her brow on his shoulder and wept. Blood and tears staining his cloak. He  
laid a single arm about her shoulders while his own shook with loss.

 

 

After a time, she collected herself and looked up. The Captains of the  
companies had gathered around their fallen Prince.

Falcred helped her to her feet. She wiped her face ineffectually with her  
hands, her scalp still bleeding. He took a kerchief from his neck and  
handed it to her without speaking.

“Thank you.” She whispered, pressing it to the seeping wound.

From the edge of the crowd she saw Círdan making his way towards her.  
Mardil was with him, and Glorfindel at his shoulder. The younger Elf’s face  
was stricken. His eyes wide with horror and disbelief.

“Aye, my lords.” She nodded slowly as they reached her. “He has fallen.”

Mardil sobbed and she flung her arms about him, pulling him close.

The Elves looked at her, sorrow heavy on them. “What must we do for him?”

“He must be taken to his father.” The soldiers nearby nodded their  
approval. “Let his men build a bier and carry him.”

 

 

Long was the journey to Elendil, and slowly they walked it.

Lord Anárion, proud Prince of AnÍ³rien, Master of Minas Anor and commander  
of the army of the south, was lifted high, in the greatest honour. The  
Captains of his companies, Lord Brithiar among them, carried him carefully  
on their shoulders. His bier was that of a soldier, fashioned from the  
cloaks and spears of his men. At his side were laid his weapons, sword and  
shield, the blood of his enemies still fresh upon them.

In front walked his squire, the youth’s face bereft, his step measured, the  
battlestandard dipped in mourning. Alongside paced an honour guard of  
veterans, tears unashamed among the beards and scars of these seasoned  
fighters, their spears reversed, points downwards. Torches, red and  
ominous, were dotted among the silent, grieving troops. The slow, mournful  
beat of the drum rolled under the sound of their feet. Gildinwen walked  
among them, Mardil at her side, weeping together. Her banner lowered in  
salute, her heart aching for the loss to the world. Loss to the army, to  
father, to brother, to sons, to wife. Her sorrow intense, she let it flood  
her, called by the knell of the drum, drawn out by a silent keening.

The wind fluttered and snatched at the cloak tails on the bier, tugging at  
the grieving battlestandards, the rain pitiless on the heads and faces of  
the mourners. The dark sky alive with light and noise.

Behind the Men, the Elves followed, respectful and awestruck. The cavalry  
on foot, leading their horses, the warriors grim of face and slow of foot.

 

 

A horseman had been sent ahead, and as the sad procession came in sight of  
the north road, Elendil’s party were waiting to meet them.

A great victory had the Alliance wrought here too. The dark forces routed  
again, once more confined to their tower of stone and iron.

The King of Arnor and Gondor stood forth alone. Upon his face a terrible  
anger, in his eyes the deepest of sorrows. His back was straight, his bared  
head high, hair and cloak fighting in the wind. At his back stood Isildur,  
hair and eyes wild with grief, and Lord Gil-galad, silent and mournful.

“Alas!” Elendil cried, his voice raw. “Behold my son.”

Anárion’s squire reached his king, and weeping unashamedly, knelt and laid  
the banner at his feet. Elendil reached out a hand and placed it on his  
head.

“I thank you for this final service.” His voice was quiet. “Now rise, and  
stand by me.”

The bearers lowered the bier to the ground, and Elendil, king and father,  
knelt beside his son in silent honour and wordless farewell. After a few  
moments, Isildur joined him and together they mourned, while around them  
the soldiers wept and above them the sky howled.

 

 

At length Lord Elendil rose and with a great fire in his eyes, addressed  
the assembled warriors, both Man and Elf. His words echoed above the storm,  
piercing the heart of every listener.

“This day my son, your Prince and commander, has given his everything for  
our cause. Will we not also give as much, that his loss might not be in  
vain?”

A shout of approval roared from every throat.

“I say this to you,” cried the King of Men, “Take heart! For we are at the  
threshold of victory! Let us not lose faith now, when the prize is in our  
sight. You fought today, looked our enemy in his face. We may be cold, wet  
and filthy, but he is starving! Let the light of Anárion, that blazed at  
your head, shine now in your hearts. Be of good courage! Let us finish  
this, then we may go home.”

A cry of great feeling rose from the Men, grief and pride, determination  
and defiance.

“Tonight,” continued Elendil. “We mourn.” He looked around slowly at the  
assembled warriors, “Tomorrow, we fight.”

 

 

Wood was brought. Piled high under the bier, while all around the warriors  
sang songs. Laments for the fallen. Ballads of great victories. Ale was  
passed among them, horns raised in salute. Each man with his own thoughts,  
his own words. Stories were told, Anárion’s deeds on the battlefield, his  
acts of courage, his gentleness with his family, his love for his wife.  
Every bitter-sweet memory that could be brought out was shared, grief at  
the death mingling with thanks for the life.

Finally, in the darkest hour of the night, the pyre was lit. Flames leapt,  
red and hungry, bright against the blackness. And above the crackling of  
the fire and the hiss of the rain, Elendil’s bard raised his voice in elegy  
[5]:

 

 

Oh whither away, proud victory day,

That dawned bright and fair with such promise?

The light has been dowsed, that showed us the way

Our Prince cut down by the Darkness.

 

 

 

 

On Gorgoroth’s plateau, he battled the foe,

Holding fast till the enemy rebound.

Till his touch and his breath, were as cold as the death.

And his life’s blood ran red on the hard ground.

 

 

 

 

As dauntless in battle as tender in love,

He fought strong and true against Mordor.

But never again, from the fields of the slain,

Will he come again to Minas Anor.

 

 

 

 

A song of the slain, in glorious campaign.

We’ll sing when the standard’s unfurled.

For all the brave fallen who’ll yet meet again,

Far beyond the horizon of this World.

 

 

Gil stood with Mardil, watching the fire catch. The flame leapt high and  
the heat wafted outwards, cleansing them, searing their grief. She felt a  
presence beside her and turned to see Elrond. Many marks of battle were on  
him, blood and sweat. Sorrow darkened his eyes and creased his brow. No  
stranger was he to death, and yet it had been many long years, even as  
Elves judge time, since the shadow had passed so close to him.

He looked around at the grieving men, and down at Gil’s tear torn face. The  
naked sorrow buffeted him as though it were a wind from the sea. The  
intensity of the grief surprised and dismayed the Elf, but deep within him,  
the blood of Man called forth with an answering note.

Gil lifted her hand to touch his arm in comfort. “Worry not.” She spoke  
quietly, “Soon our sorrow will be spent, and the healing will begin.”

The faintest shadow of a sad smile passed his lips and he reached his hand  
down to take hers, clasping it tightly, as they stood side by side, in a  
final farewell to a mighty lord.

 

 

They returned to their quarters as the cold, grey light of dawn seeped into  
the dark sky. The storm had exhausted itself, a sad drizzle the only  
remnant of its fury. As they neared, Gil felt a great hollow ache rise in  
her, and when she pushed open the door to her chamber, she pulled Elrond in  
after her.

Before he could utter a word, she launched herself at him, her lips  
crushing against his, pressing him back against the wall, her hands  
tangling in his hair. The taste of blood and tears was in her mouth.

“Gil!” he gasped, as she released his mouth to snatch a breath.

Her face was intense, wreathed in emotion, as she took his head in her  
hands, then came in for another fierce kiss. Inside her an aching emptiness  
clawed, desperate to be filled.

 

 

[If you are over 18 and want to see this scene in more detail, please refer  
to:

The Standard Bearer - Extra Scenes. Scene 4: A Darker Fire.]

 

 

After, as they lay together, he looked deep into her dark eyes, the fire  
receding from his grey ones, and stroked her sweat and rain soaked hair  
back from her face.

“And is this also an aspect of mourning?” he asked, as he regained his  
breath.

She settled into the bed, a feeling of comfort coming over her. “Yes,” she  
nodded. “Though I am not sure I could tell you why. A need to reaffirm, to  
re-bond, to reassure. A surge of overwhelming emotion finding the best  
release it can.”

“Well,” he grinned, wiping his brow, “now I have no secrets from you, even  
my darkest self has shown his face.”

She smiled, sated and replete, hunger satisfied. “I hope you will allow him  
to visit again.”

He laughed, a rich, full sound. “It is strange but I always thought of that  
side of me as being the human part. Darkest and passionate. I was wary of  
freeing him, not knowing where he might take me, or if I could tame him  
again.”

“And now?” she smiled.

“Now I see that he is as much a part of me as any other, that I should  
value every facet of myself as all have their strengths and weaknesses.”

“Oh, Elrond.” She marvelled at him, “I do love you so much.”

He pulled her close, to whisper softly in her ear, “And I you, my little  
sleeper, and I you.”

 

 

[5] Adapted from a little known version of Loch Lomond - a traditional  
Scottish lament.


	22. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Gil-galad’s chamber was warm and crowded as the evening meal was served.  
Talk was loud and informal, victory the favourite topic.

“It cannot be long now.” Gildor speared a wrinkled apple with his dagger,  
and lifted it onto his plate. “They are certainly starving.”

“Hmmph.” His brother lifted a hunk of dark bread and looked at it  
distastefully, “We are not doing that much better.”

“It could be worse,” Gildor replied through a mouthful of fruit. “They have  
been forced to eat all their horses and dogs.” He swallowed, “In fact,” he  
waggled the tip of his blade emphatically, “it would not surprise me if  
they had been eating each other.”

Gildinwen coughed on her wine.

“Gildor! Please!” Galeria’s voice was disgusted. “We are at table!”

“It is true what he says,” Glorfindel was lolling beside the healer, one  
hand idly toying with a lock of her hair. “They have eaten all their  
animals, they near the end of their endurance.” He grinned, “Even Sauron  
cannot manifest food from the air.”

“No.” Elrond spoke from the end of the table, “But he can inspire fear and  
love in his followers. There is no telling what desperate acts they may yet  
try.”

The younger elves fell silent as the Master of Imladris spoke. “We cannot  
become complacent. We must succeed every day in holding him, whereas he  
need breach us only once for the victory to be his.”

“Ah Elrond.” Glorfindel broke the spell. “We can always rely on you to be  
eternally gloomy.” He lifted the strand of smoky hair and brushed it with  
his lips. “Perhaps a little less attention to duty would do you good.” He  
gave Galeria a long look from under his lashes, causing her to blush  
deeply. “I know it does me.” His voice was low and seductive.

“Glorfindel.” She protested weakly. “You are shameless.”

He smiled languidly, his eyes suggestive.

The healer whispered loudly to Gil. “Honestly, ever since the breakout at  
the West Gate he has been utterly unbearable.” She tossed her head at the  
Elf. “One battle and he thinks himself a hero.”

With a single feline movement, the golden-haired elf rose from his chair,  
pulling the healer after him and catching hold of her waist. He whispered  
something in her ear and she flushed again.

“I think it is time that you two bid us goodnight.” Elrond’s voice was  
droll, but a smile threatened in the corner of his mouth.

 

 

The door had only just closed behind the two lovers, when it was pushed  
open again and Mardil entered. His cloak and boots were muddy, his hair  
spiky with sweat. In his hands he carried a bulky package, loosely wrapped  
in heavy canvas. Catching Gil’s eyes across the room, she rose to meet him.

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

He was breathless as though he had come at a run. “For Lord Gil-galad.”

She looked at the packet in his hand. A glimmer of fine silk shone through  
a gap in the coarse covering, fine black silk. Without breathing she lifted  
the corner to look in, biting her lip when she saw what it contained.

“Come with me.” She took his arm and guided him to the High King.

Gil-galad looked up from his meal, and pushed his chair back.

Gil lifted the cover back, just enough for him alone to see what was  
inside. His eyes sharpened and he sat up in his chair.

“Círdan.” His voice was clipped.

“My lord.”

“Clear the room. Only yourself to remain.”

The silver-haired Elf’s face registered surprise, but he did not hesitate  
to obey.

 

 

“Gil.” The voice was gentle yet insistent. “Gil, wake up.”

She shivered out of the dream, breath rough, face wet.

His fingers brushed away the tears. “I wish you would tell me.”

“I will, my love.” She looked up at him, “but not just yet.”

He sighed, frowning. “May I not help?”

She smiled sadly, “When the time comes, I will ask it.”

She looked round the room, her breath hoary in the cold. “Is it morning?”

He yawned and stretched, “Indeed it is.”

Gil yelped, “You’re letting the cold in.” She burrowed deeper into the warm  
blankets, sighing contentedly. “I used to love winter, back in Lamedon.  
Deep snow surrounding the house meant no outdoor chores. I could lie late  
in bed, warm and cosy, no sound to disturb me.”

He smiled, drawing her close. “I like winter also, although the snowy days  
are few in Imladris. Frost laces the treetops and shines on the grass. Ice  
crusts the edges of the river and hangs from the eaves.” His hands moved  
softly over her. “Soon,” he whispered, “Soon, we will see it.” Then his  
voice became mischievous, “But now,” he leapt out of bed, inciting a squeal  
of protest from Gil, “I will prove my prowess by rising to light the  
brazier!” He hastily dragged on a robe and turning up the lamp, lit a  
taper.

Gil laughed, her heart brimming with love, as she watched him perform the  
small domestic duty.

 

 

There was no levity later in the day, however, when Elrond entered her  
chamber. Arrayed in formal robes, stiff with embroidery, coronet of silver  
regal on his dark hair, he was every inch an Elf-Lord. Tall in stature and  
beautiful in face. Here was the Master of Imladris, the Peredhil, mighty  
and wise among Men and Elves. She looked at him with awe, her breath stolen  
anew.

“My lord.” She whispered, bowing low, overcome with feeling. The unsteady  
beating of her heart harkening back to the first time she had seen him.

A familiar smile lit his face, softening his look, and he held out his  
hands to her. She came shyly to take them, looking up at him. The air  
between them was heavy with hope and anticipation but they did not speak of  
it, merely pressed their fingers together.

Soon Círdan’s voice summoned Elrond to the audience with his King.

Lord Gil-galad had not explained the purpose of the meeting but there could  
be no doubt that it was linked to the message that had arrived the day  
before. The thick and heavy packet, wrapped in fine, black silk and bound  
with gold.

The front adorned with the heavy seal of Sauron himself.

The High King was seated alone in the centre of the chamber, his chair  
draped with a fine cloth. Blue robes, highly adorned with silver stars,  
flowed to his feet. His crown shone in the soft lamplight, and beneath it  
his eyes were fathomless. Elf-Lord, sage and warrior. A stillness and an  
ancient wisdom were all about him.

Elrond entered with a slow dignity. Pride and power flowed through him, and  
yet he was filled with humility as he knelt before his beloved King.

“My Lord.”

Lord Gil-galad’s noble face was sad and fond, as he placed a strong hand  
gently on the Elf’s head.

“Elrond.” His voice was quiet but commanding, and into that single word and  
soft touch, he put all that had passed between the two over the many, many  
years they had shared.

“Be seated.” He indicated the stool in front of him. His face was very  
serious, and he looked long at his herald and friend before speaking.

“Sauron has called for a parlay.”

Elrond’s eyes flashed, a thrill of anticipation fanning the seed of hope  
already in his heart. ‘Are we truly drawing to the end?’ he thought.

The High King nodded. “This will be your task. You will ride out to  
negotiate in my name.”

“To make peace?”

“If he offers surrender.”

Elrond nodded slowly, the unspoken implication plain to him, “I understand,  
my King.”

Lord Gil-galad’s eyes fixed onto Elrond’s grey ones. “It will be a hard  
duty but you have both the wisdom and the heart for it.”

“My Lord.” The Elf took Gil-galad’s hand and pressed his lips to it,  
feelings of gratitude and loyalty flooding him, before releasing it to sit  
up proudly, hands on his knees.

The Elven King nodded his head in satisfaction, and motioned with his hand.  
Círdan emerged from the shadows, a small, ornate box in his hands. With  
great gravity he handed it to Gil-galad then stepped back to stand at the  
shoulder of his king.

“For many years,” the High King’s voice was solemn, “I have carried a heavy  
responsibility, a great burden, for the Elves and all the people of Middle  
Earth. A secret which I have guarded and kept safe, and which has helped me  
with strength and wisdom when I have needed it most.”

Elrond’s face was impassive, but his mind flew. Half-heard hints, and  
snatches of rumour had given him a thought of what the High King referred  
to. Was it truly real then? Would he see it at last?

Gil-galad opened the box and drew forth a silken cloth. With a slow  
reverence he unwrapped it to reveal a Ring.

“Behold Vilya. The greatest of the three Elf Rings.”

The ring was of a heavy gold, around the edge mighty words of wisdom and  
power were etched, and in the centre a great, blue sapphire shone like the  
sky on the sea.

Elrond looked in awe at one of the greatest treasures of the Elves. Forged  
two thousand years ago by Celebrimbor, in the fated city of Ost-in-Edhil.  
Hidden by him from the grasp of Sauron, who greatly desired all Rings for  
himself.

“Now I pass it to you.” Gil-galad looked hard at the Master of Imladris.

At first Elrond could not take the words in. ‘He is giving it to me? To  
me?’

The High King lifted the chain upon which the Ring hung.

“No, my lord.” Elrond shook his head, his heart fearful. “I cannot. I am  
not worthy of such a thing.”

“That is for me to judge.”

The Elf’s face was troubled. “But why are you doing this? Why do you not  
keep the Ring?”

“Because the time has come to pass it on.” The High King’s voice was very  
grim.

Elrond shook his head, sadness in his heart and confusion in his mind. “I  
do not understand, my lord.”

“You will, my friend.” Gil-galad’s voice softened, “You will.”

“But surely there are others more worthy than I?” the Elf looked up at the  
Shipwright. “Why not Círdan?”

“He has his own charge.”

From beneath his tunic the white-haired Elf drew forth a chain, from which  
also hung a great Ring. Narya, whose stone shone with a red fire.

Elrond’s face took on a deep seriousness, and he returned his gaze to  
Vilya. It called to him like the sound of the sea.

“And the third?”

“The Lady Galadriel of LÍ³rien.”

Elrond nodded slowly.

He bent his head, and Gil-galad placed the chain around his neck. “You may  
not wear it while Sauron possesses the One, for it will give him power over  
you.” He took the dark head gently between his two hands and kissed the  
brow. “I have no offspring of my blood, Elrond, but I have always  
considered you as a son.”

The Master of Imladris had no words. Love and fealty filled his heart.

“Use it to protect and preserve our people. Make Imladris a shelter for  
them, and a haven for wisdom and power.”

“I shall, my lord.”

 

 

Elrond walked slowly back from the audience, his thoughts busy. The rain  
had stopped and the cold air was almost fresh. He breathed deeply, a  
feeling of anticipation coming over him. The unfamiliar weight of Vilya was  
warm against his skin, and he felt a great peace. There was much to be done  
on the morrow, to bring an end to this madness at last. Then we can go  
home. Imladris. He ached for it, his soul parched. The green valley, the  
sough of the trees, the laughter of the stream. His house waiting, the  
rooms inviting, his people welcoming. He thought of Gil, loving and  
patient. A warmth filled him. He imagined her there, walking with him;  
riding together over the moors; her laughter echoing in the halls; her soft  
voice in the twilight; her hair on his pillow. The picture was strong, he  
could almost touch it. Very well, let it be tonight, he had waited too long  
already.

He felt a joy come over him. A smile came to his face and his step  
quickened. He would need his harp.

 

 

She was reading when he entered, the room warm from the brazier and cheery  
with lamps. He stood quietly for a long moment, taking in the cosy scene,  
before she looked up at him and lit his heart with her smile.

“You have returned.”

“Yes.”

She put her book aside and rose to meet him. He placed his harp on the  
table, and took her hands. She looked deep into his eyes, and he read the  
hope there.

“Yes, my love.” He answered her unspoken question, “Sauron has called for a  
parlay.”

A great smile leapt to her face.

“Tomorrow I ride out as Herald, to negotiate the terms for surrender.”

“Oh, Elrond!” Happiness danced in her eyes and she squeezed his fingers.  
“Then it will soon be over!”

“It will, Gill. It will.” His smile matched hers. “And then we can go  
home.”

She took a breath to reply, but before she could release it, he took her  
head in his hands, and touched his lips briefly to her soft ones. The  
warmth of them never ceased to delight him. But later, later he would enjoy  
them. First, he had something else to do. He felt his heart flutter with  
excitement, as though he were a child on a feast day.

“Sit.” He instructed, guiding her back to her chair.

He drew up the stool, and lifting his harp, settled himself in front of  
her.

She was silent, her dark eyes huge, her lips parted as she watched him  
unwrap the instrument.

He settled the familiar shape into the crook of his arm, his fingers  
finding their place without his eyes leaving her face.

“I have a song for you, my little sleeper.”

Her voice made no reply, but all was in her face as her eyes widened and  
her breath sharpened.

He settled his breathing, listening for his heart and feeling for the  
music, then his fingers stroked the strings.

 

 

Gil felt her heart still within her as the harp sang. The notes pulled out  
a longing within her, an aching for a green place, a haven, a home.

 

 

Gloomy winter's now all gone,

Soft the western breeze blows in,

Across the Ford of Bruinen.

The mavis sings so cheery, O.

Pale the Elrhîw’s snowy spell,

Decks the slopes of Rivendell,

Blooming like thy lovely sel',

My own, my artless dearie, O.

 

 

Come, my lady, let us stray,

O'er Imladris’ sunny brae,

Blithely spend the golden day,

'Midst joy that’s never weary, O.

Towering o'er the dark Greenwoods,

Misty Mountains brush the clouds,

Silver boughs, with downy buds,

Adorn the banks so briery, O.

 

 

Round the sylvan fairy nooks,

Feathery breckans fringe the rocks,

'Neath the hill the river talks,

And everything is cheery, O;

Trees may bud, and birds may sing,

Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,

Joy to me they cannot bring,

Unless with thee, my dearie, O. [6]

 

 

She gazed upon him, tears in her eyes, no words necessary, the fullness of  
her heart writ plain on her face.

He laid his harp aside and took her hands. Long and deep he looked into her  
eyes.

“When I return to Imladris, I want you to come with me.” His eyes were  
tender and filled with promise, “To make it your home, and spend all the  
days of your life there, with me. As my wife.”

Here it was. The words at once so longed for, and yet so dreaded. Her heart  
stretched its wings, ready to soar with happiness, but she held it back.  
Forced it down. Not yet.

His face was filled with joy, his gaze guileless and expectant.

“Oh my love.” She cried, “Gladly will I come with you, to pass all my days  
by your side. Nothing would give me greater happiness.”

A wondrous smile illuminated his face.

She felt herself falter. This was going to be so difficult.

She took a deep breath, “But I cannot come as your wife.”

The sudden hurt in his eyes was like a shadow of winter.

She lifted a hand to his face, “Elrond, I love you. You are all to me.”

“Then why?” he whispered.

“Because you are of the Firstborn, and I am a mortal. You made your choice  
a long time ago, and where I must go you cannot follow. Nor can I cross the  
Sea with you. Thus we have but a few precious years together.” Her voice  
dropped to an anguished whisper, “And I cannot bear the thought of you  
being alone again after I am gone.”

His face was agonised, and he lifted his fingers to still her lips. “Hush.”

She pressed those fingers briefly to her lips, then took them in hers,  
“No, I must speak,” her voice was tortured, “I want you to promise me, that  
after my death, you will not be alone again.” She forced herself to  
continue, though it burned her heart to do it, “That you will marry a  
beautiful Elf-princess and make a family.” She tried to smile, but the  
edges blurred with tears. “No Elf-lady would take second place after me, so  
I shall step aside.”

Tears were in his eyes also, the first she had ever seen. “I love you, Gil.  
I would honour you with everything that I have, show the world that you  
stand by my side, that you have my heart. Make you my wife, and the Lady of  
Imladris.”

“I know, my lord.” Her voice was heavy with unshed sorrow. “But what care I  
for the world? To be the lady of your heart is all the honour that I  
desire.”

“Is this the matter that has been causing you such unrest?”

“Yes, my love,” her voice was raw, “A dream beyond all sadness. You sit  
alone. A great sorrow upon your brow, an old loneliness in your eyes - and  
no-one comes to comfort you.” She reached out her hands to clasp his face,  
and her tears spilled over, “It cuts my heart so to see it, till I think I  
shall weep forever.”

“And this..,” he faltered, “..promise. It would give you peace?”

“Yes.” She whispered.

“And you would still come with me to Imladris? To be my wife in all but  
name, for such time as is granted to us?”

“Yes, my love. With all my heart I promise it.”

He looked down in silence, for a long while, and when he raised his face to  
her, it was sad and grave. “Very well. It shall be as you have asked.”

And he took her in his arms, that they might hold each other - so close, so  
tight, so long. And whether the tears they shed were of joy or sorrow,  
neither could have said.

 

 

After a time, Gil became aware of a gentle sound.

“Listen.” She whispered. From out of the night came the haunting note of  
pipes. “He is missing his home too.”

Elrond looked down at her, stroking her hair away from her face. “Soon we  
will be there, my love.” A smile came slowly to his face. “I want to show  
you everything. The river, the mountains, the forest. Walk with you under  
the rustling trees, ride with you over the high moor. Talk late into the  
night while listening to the owl and watching the stars.”

“I long to see it, my love.”

The tempo of the music changed. No longer a sad longing, now a faster song,  
a lilt of spring. Gil smiled. “He is playing a Cuaresal. A dance for the  
season of planting.” She felt her feet tapping in time.

Elrond listened for a moment, feeling his way through the unfamiliar tune,  
then he rose. “Come,” he held out his hands to her. “Show me.”

She accepted his offer with delight, laughter in her face.

“It is very simple.” She pushed the chairs under the table.

He raised an eyebrow doubtfully.

“You stand there.” She placed him. “And I here.” They faced each other, a  
few feet apart. “Before we start, courtesy dictates that we must bow.” He  
placed one hand behind his back, lowering his head as she swept towards to  
the ground.

“Now we turn, so.” They faced in the same direction. “Then just follow what  
I do, the music will say when to move.”

First, a toss of the head and a stamp of the foot. Then four paces forward.  
His feet were light, perfectly in time.

“Now we face each other, two steps up, and two steps back.”

His eyes were laughing.

“Now reach your arm around my waist, and we turn about.” She felt his lithe  
body brush hers, already he was springing on his toes.

“Now sunwise.” He swung her with vigour and she laughed aloud.

“You are a natural.”

He grinned at her.

“Now all again the other way.”

They gave themselves over to the dance, bodies swaying and moving through  
the steps, simple yet layered with meaning. Touch and part, step and turn,  
eyes always on each other.

All too soon the song finished, and he caught her to him. Her face was  
flushed with joy, and a light of happiness sparkled in his eyes.

“When we return to Imladris,” he smiled down at her, “I will introduce  
this custom, and we shall dance together every feast day.”

She felt her tears shine, “Oh my love,” she whispered, “If you will but  
kiss me I shall be happier than I have ever been.”

“Your wish shall be my command, lady of my heart.” And he bent his head to  
fulfil it.

 

 

 

 

[6] Adapted from the hauntingly beautiful song: “Gloomy Winter’s Now Awa’  
“, written in 1808 by tragic Scots poet Robert Tannahill.


	23. A Treachery Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

He did not know how many nights it had been that he had watched her sleep,  
he knew only that he never tired of it. Her face relaxed and trusting, her  
warm body curled against him. The spill of her hair, the gentle sound of  
her breath, occasional murmurs. And the smell of her, delicious and  
wholesome, like fresh bread on a spring wind.

For the first time in weeks she had slept undisturbed. Her fears at last  
laid to rest.

He blew gently over her ear and she smiled in her sleep. He whispered and  
she stirred. He danced his lips over her shoulder, inviting skin peeking  
out from beneath her shift. She purred and stretched, her feet pressing  
down against his. Gently he stroked the white scars left by the knife that  
had almost stolen her from him, then he moved his mouth to the smooth skin  
of her neck, nuzzling softly.

“Elrond.” She murmured, “Am I awake or still dreaming?”

“Definitely dreaming, my love.” He whispered, his lips continuing their  
ministrations

 

 

[Optional NC-17 love scene: The Standard Bearer - Extra Scenes: scene 5

‘The Sleeper Awakes’]

 

 

He stroked her hair, looking into her dark eyes and she felt the wind of  
joy rush over her, cleansing doubts, sweeping away worries, steering a  
course for the future.

She touched his face, delicately, lightly, as one might on seeing a great  
treasure for the first time. “I never dreamed that love could be like  
this.” She whispered, “You are the sigh of breath in my body, the singing  
of blood in my veins. The light of the stars shines on me from your eyes  
and when you kiss me, all the world disappears.” She clasped her hands to  
him. “Thank you. My beloved lord. Thank you for being, thank you for loving  
me, thank you for sharing all the happiest moments of my life.”

“Gil.” He touched his lips to her brow. “My little sleeper, my Elrhîw, you  
have given me the key to my heart. Shown me the way to myself and taught me  
not to fear. I was a fallow field but now I am sprung with life.”

A last kiss they shared, a touching of lips and of hearts, before duty  
called them to start the day.

 

 

The parlay would be at the North Gate. Elrond was to join up with Isildur,  
who would speak for the Men. A squire each only, would accompany them.

Many gathered to see the Herald ride out, hope and anticipation bright on  
faces and loud in voices. The horses’ coats had been brushed till they  
shone, manes and tails flowing like silk, and bright cloths were hung about  
them. Even the day seemed brighter, the air clearer. Halmir, his face  
flushed with pride, back straight and shoulders square, carried the  
standard of Gil-galad, silver stars fluttering against the blue sky.

When the Lord of Imladris came out, a murmur rippled through the company.  
He was dressed for riding but his dark tunic was of the finest silk, heavy  
with embroidery, and over it he wore his herald’s tabard. The silver and  
blue of the High King quartered with the white of truce. His hair was tied  
back, and his coronet shone brightly in the late morning sun. His face was  
alert and his eyes keen, their grey gravity tempered with the hope that he  
carried for so many.

Gil-galad stood waiting, hair and cloak gently floating in the breeze, his  
regal face filled with pride at the promise of his protégé. In his hand he  
held a white wand.

“My lord.” Elrond bowed formally before his king.

“Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris. Take this stave of office, the symbol  
of the peacemaker.” He held out the baton. “I send you with my blessing.  
Treat with strength and wisdom. I bind myself to your pledge.”

Elrond took the stave reverently and replied in a firm voice. “I go forth  
in your name my Lord, to speak with your voice and do your bidding.”

He mounted up, controlling his eager horse easily, the wind fluttering the  
banner above his head.

Gildinwen stepped forward, taking a deep breath to control her nervousness.  
She was also dressed in the livery of Gil-galad’s house, Elrond’s Beleriand  
cloak tugging at her shoulders. The mithril band shone on her dark hair and  
her eyes brimmed with love and pride. She raised the stirrup cup to him.

“A safe journey, my lord.” She tried to speak the required words strongly,  
“And a successful venture.”

He took the goblet and drained it in a single draught before handing it  
back to her. The tiniest touch of a finger against hers, the fleeting brush  
of eyes, the faintest shadow of a smile and he was off. Colours bright,  
Gil-galad’s standard streaming above their heads, they spurred their horses  
North. To Isildur, to Barad-dûr and, hopefully, to peace.

 

 

Gil stood a long while looking after him, hugging the cloak about her and  
watching as the bright colours faded into the distance. When she could see  
them no longer she returned to her chamber.

She laid her cloak over the chair and poured a cup of water, tipping a  
little into the Elrhîw before she drank. The bud was full now, just ready  
to burst into bloom.

“Will you flower tomorrow, little plant?” she asked, leaning her elbows on  
the table to look at it. “An omen of peace?”

She sighed, it would be a long day waiting for his return. A stack of  
papers awaited her attention, but she knew she would never be able to  
concentrate. Better to have some company. Picking up the cloak again, she  
headed back outside. She would go and visit Galeria.

As she ducked out the door she nearly collided with a young man on his way  
in.

“Will!”

“My lady.” The soldier’s voice was anxious, his face tired and drawn.

“What is it?” she laid a concerned hand on his arm.

“It’s Tom. He’s sick. Very bad.” His eyes were dark with worry. “Lord

Falcred said you would come and help him.” He looked pleadingly at her.

She felt a sudden fear. “What happened?”

“It was an arrow wound, just a graze, a couple of days ago. It seemed like  
nothing, but I think it must have been poisoned.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“He’s been shaking and sweating. Calling out nonsense, doesn’t recognise us  
or make any sense. I’ve been sitting with him all night,” His voice  
thickened, “This morning he’s worse. I worry he’s going to die.” He grasped  
her arm. “Will you come? Please?”

“Yes, of course.” She tried to smile reassuringly, “Let me just fetch my  
medicines.”

Falcred’s company were still stationed near the west road, but there would  
be no need to duck and cover this time. The Dark Lord’s arsenal was silent  
in honour of the truce. A grim faced Sergeant Gillow waited at the crossing  
point to escort them.

“Bregor.” She hugged him tightly. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, lass.” he patted her fondly on the back. “Although I wish the  
circumstances were better.”

They made their way quickly across the first bridge, hot fumes rising  
slowly from the glowing pits beneath them. Gil stifled the urge to run, her  
neck prickling with remembered danger.

“Is he very bad?”

“Aye lass,” Gillow answered from behind her, “I’ve never seen anything like  
it. I would have sworn there was nothing amiss with that scratch he got,  
but ...” He shrugged helplessly. “Thank you for coming.”

They were picking their way over the road now, the gouged and pitted  
surface littered with rubble, stones and spent darts, a testament to the  
many battles fought here. Gildinwen felt the debris shift and crunch under  
her.

“How could I not, Bregor?” she turned to look at him, her eyes sorrowful,  
“After all we went through together.” Beneath her foot a stone twisted, and  
she slipped, throwing out a hand to break her fall.

“My lady!” Will turned and grabbed an arm to help her to her feet. “Are you  
all right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You’re bleeding.”

She looked at her hand, the palm torn and bloody. “It’s just a scrape.”

“Let me see,” Sergeant Gillow took her hand to inspect it, “Aye, naught to  
worry about. Here, let me bind it for you.” He fished in his pockets,  
dislodging an array of miscellaneous items, before producing a reasonably  
clean handkerchief. He wrapped it efficiently around her hand while Will  
retrieved the dropped articles.

“There,” the sergeant admired his handiwork with pride, “that’ll keep it  
clean until you can get a proper one on.”

“Thank you, Bregor.” She smiled, “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

The sergeant grinned briefly as he collected his belongings from Will’s  
cupped hands.

A crumpled scrap of paper caught Gil’s attention, a flicker of recognition  
edged with fear. She reached for it.

“What’s this?”

“Guard rota.” replied Gillow, repacking his pockets.

She smoothed it open. It was indeed a guard list, nothing special about  
it...except for the handwriting.

It was familiar. Ominously familiar. A dagger of dread and excitement  
pierced her. The coded message, the one that spoke of the western wall and  
the keystone. It was the same. She clutched it in her hand.

“Who wrote this, sergeant?” her voice was very urgent.

He looked at it. “Lord Brith.” He pointed, “There’s his mark at the  
bottom.”

And so it was. She felt the pieces of the puzzle start to slip into place.  
She shuddered, as a trusted member of Anárion’s council, he would have been  
privy to everything.

“What is it?” Gillow interrupted her train of thought.

She gazed at him intently. Was he in on it too? His eyes were guileless,  
his frown concerned. No.

She looked round at the younger soldier. His face wore the same look of  
worry.

Every nerve screamed at her to run at once to Lord Gil-galad, but Tom could  
not wait.

“Will, do you know my assistant Mardil?”

“Yes, my lady.” He nodded.

“Good.” She handed the paper to him. “Take this directly to him. Put it  
only into his hand. He will know what to do with it. Say that I will return  
as soon as I can.”

“Yes, my lady.” He took the note and tucked it into his jerkin, “Are you  
going to go on to Tom?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “I promise I will do whatever I can for him.”

The young man bowed briefly then retraced his steps back the way they had  
come.

Gil felt her heart heavy as she followed Gillow across the second bridge.  
She tried not to think about the message. Later. Mardil would take care of  
it. She needed her mind here, to see what she could do for Tom.

 

 

“Here we are.” The sergeant stopped outside the door, and turned to Gil.  
“These are Lord Falcred’s quarters, he moved Tom here because they’re  
warmer than ours, and quieter.”

She nodded, and he pushed open the door.

The chamber was spacious and well-appointed, warm and lit by several lamps.  
Tom lay on a narrow cot, his face pale and still, a bandage around his  
upper left arm. As they entered a familiar figure looked up from his place  
at the table, and rose to greet them.

“Well done, sergeant.” Falcred’s voice was strained. He bowed stiffly to  
Gil, “My lady, thank you for coming.”

She gave a tentative smile. “How is he?”

“I have seen no change in him.” Falcred answered tightly.

She knelt beside the cot, placing her hand on Tom’s forehead. It was hot  
and clammy, his lips dry. She opened his mouth, his tongue was swollen and  
discoloured. It certainly looked like poison.

Gil unwrapped the dressing from his arm and examined the wound. It was  
clean and healing well. She replaced the bandage and stood up, her brow  
wrinkled with concern.

Two faces looked expectantly at her, the gnarled veteran and the handsome  
captain. Two pairs of eyes, each with their own shade of trouble.

“I am not sure.” She shook her head to try and clear it. “He certainly  
shows signs that could be poisoning, but I see no contamination in the  
wound.” She passed a hand over her brow, before unslinging her medicine bag  
onto the table and rummaging in it.

“Have you wine?” she asked Falcred.

“Certainly, my lady.” He moved to a side table and poured a cup.

She opened a packet of crushed herbs, the aromatic smell prickling her  
nostrils, and taking the cup Falcred placed on the table, she mixed them  
in.

“May I offer you some also?” he asked.

She looked up at his face, his eyes were intense, and almost sad, but his  
voice was careful with courtesy.

“Yes, thank you, my lord.” She smiled a little, then turned to the  
sergeant. “Bregor, would you help me?” she indicated the patient.

“Of course.” He hurried over, taking the inert form gently in his arms,  
lifting the hot head so that Gil could coax the infusion down the swollen  
throat. Drop by drop, one tiny trickle at a time, until at last it was all  
done.

“There.” She sat back on her heels and watched fondly as the sergeant  
settled the youth again. “I’ve done the best I know. It’s up to him now.”

Gillow stood, and gave her a hand to her feet.

“I’ll return in a day or two and see how he is.”

“What should we do for him in the meantime?” Falcred asked, holding out her  
winecup.

She accepted it gratefully, “Just keep him warm, and give him as much water  
as you can get down.”

She took a deep swallow, the soft, rich wine comforting. She looked down at  
Tom and fervently hoped the herbs would work. She would bring Elrond to see  
him, perhaps tomorrow. He would know better what to do. She felt a warm  
feeling come over her thinking about him. Would he be there yet? ‘No,’ her  
thoughts drifted, ‘probably not even at Elendil’s camp by now.’

Sergeant Gillow was speaking to her. She shook her head slightly, the sound  
cloying in her head, “I’m sorry, Bregor.”

He spoke again, but she still couldn’t quite make out the words, and  
somehow they didn’t seem important. Neither did the door opening and Lord  
Brithiar entering with two men. Or the fact that her knees were weak and  
everything was getting very dark.

“Gil.” Falcred’s voice came from far away in her ear and she felt his arm  
at her back. “Don’t worry, everything will be alright. Just relax.” It  
sounded like such a good idea. She felt so sleepy.

 

 

“My lady!” Gillow made to spring forward as she sagged into Lord Falcred’s  
arms, winecup tumbling unheeded to the floor, but a sharp blow with a sword  
hilt felled him to the ground.

“Well done, Falcred.” Brith’s face bore an expression of grim satisfaction.  
He looked at the senseless sergeant. “What do you want done with him?”

Falcred wrapped Gil’s Elven cloak about her, carefully covering her head.

“Bind and gag him.”

The older man looked dubious. “Better to finish it.”

“No!”

“He will give us away.”

Falcred hefted Gil’s unconscious form into his arms. “What does it matter?  
We will not be returning.”

 

 

Mardil was tired but immensely satisfied with himself. Taking advantage of  
the day’s ceasefire he had been visiting some of the most remote sentry  
posts and had collected a great deal of interesting information.

The door to his lady’s quarters was ajar when he arrived, but on entering  
he found she was not there. Instead the room was occupied by a young  
soldier, slumped snoring at the table.

“Hello!” said Mardil loudly, a grin on his face.

“What?!” The man started awake, looking round in confusion. He focused on  
the dark haired lad in front of him.

“You’re Mardil?”

“That’s right.” He put his satchel on the table.

“I’m Will. Your mistress sent me to give you this.” He fumbled in his  
jerkin for the paper, “You weren’t here so I waited, and..” he looked  
shamefaced, holding out the missive. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mardil, taking the note, “I’ve only just got back  
anyway. Where is she?”

“She went to our camp to see my friend Tom, he’s very sick.” Will rubbed  
his eyes, “What time of day is it?”

“Towards the second watch of the afternoon.” replied Mardil smoothing out  
the paper, holding it up in the late sun. “By all the stars!” he cried,  
then grabbed a hold of Will’s arm. “Come with me!” He dragged the soldier  
up and out the door.

 

 

“My lord!” Mardil could not contain his excitement, even in the presence of  
the High King.

“Yes, Mardil.” Gil-galad’s voice was indulgent, and he beckoned the young  
man forward.

Casting an apologetic glance at Círdan, Mardil stepped forward and handed  
the damning evidence to the Elven King. “The lady Gildinwen sent this, my  
Lord. It is a guard list signed by Lord Brithiar. The handwriting matches  
that on a letter we intercepted months ago.” He looked grim. “It would seem  
he is our spy.”

A commotion outside distracted their attention, followed by a guard  
entering and whispering in Círdan’s ear.

“Let him come in.” the white haired Elf commanded, his face serious.

All eyes looked to the door as it opened to admit Sergeant Gillow, his face  
ashen and anguished, blood caked in his grey hair.

“Sergeant!” Will rushed to his side, “What happened?”

“A trap.” Gillow’s voice was hollow with grief, “It was a trap and I led  
her straight into it.”

“What?” Mardil and Will raised their voices in a simultaneous chorus of  
questions.

“Silence!” Gil-galad thundered, rising to his feet. He pinioned Gillow with  
his eyes. “Speak. Tell us what happened.”

Bregor drew a shuddering breath. “One of my lads has been sick,  
mysteriously sick.” he added bitterly, “I came today to ask the Lady  
Gildinwen to tend him. Lord Falcred, he gave her some wine to drink.” His  
voice was quiet in the silence. “It was drugged. They took her. I tried to  
....” He tailed off, tears coming to his eyes, “It was a trap, all of it.  
Tom’s illness, Falcred’s suggestion that I fetch her.” He dashed a hand  
over his eyes, “She trusted me, and I led her in.”

“Is Lord Brithiar involved in this?”

Gillow nodded, his mouth twisting with distaste, “Aye, my lord. He was  
there, it was his man that gave me this.” He pointed to his bloody scalp.  
“Falcred, he always liked her, but I never thought...” he shook his head  
sadly.

“Sergeant.” Lord Gil-galad’s voice was firm. “Do not blame yourself. You  
have shown only courage and integrity. Let us look now to helping her.”

The veteran nodded slowly. “Aye, my Lord.”

“There is something that I do not understand.” Círdan spoke slowly, “Why  
would they take her now?”

“What do you mean?” Gil-galad looked round at his lieutenant.

“We can assume that Brith was behind the attempt on her life. But it makes  
no sense to abduct her now, when at this very moment Elrond is in parlay at  
the North Gate.”

“Oh alas!” Mardil’s face lost all colour, and he clasped a hand to his  
mouth in horrified realisation. Then he rushed from the room.

Within minutes he had returned, another paper in his hand. He laid it  
soberly on the table in front of Gil-galad, next to the other.

“Here is the message that was taken. As you can see the hand is the same.”  
The Elves nodded in agreement, and Mardil looked around at them grimly. “It  
was sent some weeks after the attempt on the Lady Gildinwen’s life. An  
attempt that was thwarted only by Lord Elrond’s action. Brith was present.  
He was responsible for searching the prisoner.”

“That’s true!” cried Gillow. “It has tormented me for months how that knife  
got past the guards!”

“Just so.” nodded Mardil. “The message is not only in cipher, it is also in  
code and we could never understand what it meant. Until now.” He took a  
deep breath. “‘The defence of the western wall has revealed a weakness in  
the keystone.’” He looked up to meet the penetrating gaze of the King of  
the Elves. “She is the western wall.”

Gil-galad sat back in his chair, a deadly comprehension on his face. “And  
Lord Elrond is the keystone.”


	24. Strength and Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Isildur’s party was waiting at the North road as the Herald rode up.  
Elendil’s banner danced in the weak sunlight, seven stars on a blood red  
field, and the High King of Arnor and Gondor stood with his son. Prince  
Isildur was arrayed in his battle armour, the silver plates gleaming, and  
on his head shone the royal helm of Gondor, adorned with gold, the crimson  
plume proud in the wind. The scabbard of his great sword was empty,  
however, and the caparison of his mighty war horse was white. His squire  
Ohtar was mounted on a pony, the standard of his king tight in his grip.

“Well met, Lord Elrond.” The Prince of Gondor welcomed the Elf, raising an  
invisible sword in salute.

“Greetings, Prince Isildur.” returned Elrond, as he halted, “And to you, my  
Lord.” He bowed to Elendil.

The King of Men dipped his sober head in acknowledgement, his once joyful  
face tired by years of battle, and dulled by sorrow. “You are welcome,  
Master Elrond.” He looked at both the envoys, his voice grave but strong,  
“May you go forth in wisdom, and return with peace.” He lifted his hand in  
blessing, and the party turned their horses towards the gates of Barad-dûr.

It was a goodly distance from Elendil’s camp to the gates of the Dark  
Tower. Along the north road, its surface bearing many marks of battle, the  
ground to either side broken and torn, littered with discarded weapons.  
Their approach sent carrion birds flapping heavily into the air, returning  
lazily after they had passed, picking at the bones of the dead. Ahead of  
them the citadel loomed blackly, obscuring the late afternoon sun as the  
sharp shadows of the spires and crenulations reached along the road to meet  
them.

“So, Elrond.” Isildur’s voice was friendly, but it masked the strain that  
they both felt. “Do you think he will offer a surrender?”

Elrond looked round at the Man, meeting the intense eyes with his own quiet  
ones. “I hope so, Isildur.”

The Prince nodded in agreement, his black stallion prancing and  
sidestepping, the hooves raising sparks on the stones. “I do not see how he  
can last much longer.” He controlled his restive mount easily, “Surely he  
must see that he is vanquished?”

“One would expect it to be so, and yet I fear he may still have surprises  
for us.”

It was colder now, deep in the shadow of the terrible fortress, the blank  
walls rising to tower above them, black and forbidding, dark slits and  
shadowy windows scattered along the upper reaches. In front of them they  
could see a faint orange glow, from the fiery pit that surrounded Barad-dûr, and at the head of the road, the North Gate. Shut fast, the drawbridge  
raised.

The sound of the horses was loud on the roadway as they approached the dark  
gatehouse, all around was an unnatural silence. Even the wind had fallen,  
the air eerie and still, the banners limp over their heads.

Just short of the end of the road they halted, waiting. In front of them,  
the deep moat seethed heat far beneath, fumes and foulness rising slowly.  
Facing them across it, the blank face of the raised drawbridge.

“Now what?” asked Isildur impatiently.

“Now,” returned Elrond, his face composed, “We wait. I doubt it will be  
long.”

 

 

Indeed their approach must have been watched, since it was no more than a  
few minutes before an ominous rumble signalled the slow descent of the  
heavy drawbridge. Gradually, inch by creaking inch the huge timbers  
lowered, till they slammed into place over the foul chasm, causing  
Isildur’s horse to rear and snort. Now with an iron shudder the massive  
studded doors opened, their hinges deathly silent, the gatekeepers  
invisible. Behind them the huge grate of an iron portcullis raised its evil  
teeth, and from the dark mouth revealed, an unwholesome wind sallied forth.  
In its foul embrace, four horsemen rode, two abreast. Three were Men,  
cloaked and hooded, and one was a thing that once was a Man. Now an  
immortal shadow, bound for all life, for his very life, to the Dark Lord,  
held in thrall by the terrible treasure that adorned his hand.

“Nazgûl.” whispered Othmar, his voice as trembling as his pony.

“Courage,” countered Isildur, “They are bound, as we are, under the terms  
of the truce.” His own horse was pawing and stamping at the approach of the  
corruption of majesty that was the mount of the Wraith.

Even Elrond’s horse was shuddering beneath him as Sauron’s party echoed  
across the bridge to take their place, their black banners flapping in the  
aberrant breeze. Ten yards separated the two sides, and yet the loathsome  
stink of decay was noisome in the nostrils of Man and Elf.

 

 

Elrond grasped his wand in his hand, murmuring soothingly to quiet his  
horse. Beneath his tunic Vilya was a warm comfort against the skin of his  
chest, a bright defence against the darkness, and in his head the words of  
his King were clear and sound.

He raised the baton, the white gleam a challenge to the black creature in  
front of him.

“I am Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris and Herald to Lord Gil-galad, High  
King of the Elves. I come to speak with his voice. To hear your proposal  
and answer it.”

“I am Morgurth.” [7] The voice was an insidious growl. “Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, Messenger of Mordor and the Mouth of Sauron. I am sent by my Master to  
make an offer.” He turned the empty shadow of his face to Isildur. “And  
does the Elf speak for you also, Prince of Gondor, or do you have your own  
voice?”

“I speak for my father, King Elendil of Arnor,” Isildur’s voice was strong  
and proud, “and for all the free Men of that land. Lord Elrond is my ally,  
and in this matter I bow to his greater wisdom.”

If the Nazgûl had had a mouth he would have smiled, but the sound he made  
could not be called a laugh. “That is well, as my proposal is for the Elf  
Lord alone, although another here may wish to speak with you when I am  
done.”

Elrond frowned, casting a glance at Isildur. The Man’s face was equally  
confused. No doubt that was the creature’s intention, to sow discord. The  
Elf steeled himself to answer evenly.

“Speak then the words of your master. Let us hear them, that we may make an  
answer.”

“You have come here expecting a peace offer, have you not, Elf Lord?” The  
Wraith sneered the words.

Elrond felt a cold haft of disappointment plunge into his heart, was there  
then to be no peace? But he made neither reply nor response.

“The offer is for you, and you alone, Elrond Peredhil. Elf-Lord, mighty  
among both the First- and the Second-born.” The Nazgul’s voice was lower  
now, inviting. “Join with us. Bow before my Master and swear him your  
allegiance. Your reward shall be power and glory before all the peoples of  
Middle Earth. No longer a half-breed, pitied and mistrusted, but a great  
Prince of the Darkness, feared and worshipped, ruling over all the Elves in  
the name of my Master.”

Elrond could hear the sharp intake of breath from Isildur, followed by a  
growl of anger, while in his own heart, disbelief and confusion were a-  
riot.

“Your Master is a fool if he thinks he can buy me with such a price.” The  
Elf-Lord’s voice was clear and strong.

“Yes.” mused the Messenger, “We did not think it would be sufficient.  
Perhaps we need to,” he paused for a moment, “sweeten the deal.” He  
motioned peremptorily with a mailed hand and from the gateway, three  
figures emerged. One, dark and heavyset, had foul features and a hideous  
demeanour ominously familiar to the Master of Imladris. It was the Orc  
Captain he had faced on the Battlefield of Dagorlad.

“We meet again, Elf-Lord.” He spat derisively.

But Elrond had no eyes for the fiendish creature, only for his captive.  
Viciously gagged and hobbled, hands forced up her back and fastened to a  
running noose about her neck, was his Gil. Eyes wide, blood trickling from  
the fettered mouth, bruises blackening on her skin.

A cry tore from the lips of the Elf-Lord, and it was very terrible to hear.

He could feel Isildur’s gaze on him, see, without looking, the realisation  
cross the Man’s face.

Gil. Oh Gil. My love.

No.

My brave and gentle girl. How can it be? Not here. Not in this hateful  
place.

Pain expanded through his veins, anger burning in its wake. His hand  
tightened on the wand, knuckles as white as that badge of trust. In his  
heart he screamed for her, his limbs shook with the overwhelming urge to  
put his horse to the charge. To fling his baton of peace into the fire  
below, and to kill that foul abortion with his bare hands. But the weight  
of Vilya reminded him that he could not act alone. That he was bound to the  
sacred trust of his King, and the fate of all the Elves, of all the people  
of Middle Earth, hung heavy about his neck.

He thought he would suffocate, trapped mercilessly between love and duty.  
The sheer pressure, from within and without, crushing him. With an iron  
will he kept his face still, while within him his heart was in shreds.

“Come, my lord.” countenanced the Wraith. “One word only and she is free.  
You are under treaty of truce, bound to honour any agreement made. We will  
trust you. Agree only to join us, swear your allegiance to my Master, and  
she is yours again.”

Agony. It sickened and paralysed him. He could not take breath.

A hand came onto his shoulder, the strength of Man gripping it.

“Elrond.” Isildur’s voice was low. “You cannot. The price is too high.”

He pulled in a breath, and fixed his eyes upon hers. Above the cruel curb  
they still flashed with love and defiance, her head almost imperceptible in  
its shake, her mute abrogation of the offered pact.

But that would mean he must leave her here. In this hellish prison. Forsake  
her. Abandon her to....a dark fist gripped his heart.

 

 

“No?” The Orc Captain was grinning lasciviously now. His hands twisting the  
bonds of Gil’s arms to cripple her. He leant his foul face close to hers.  
“Then she shall come to me.”

“No!” this cry from the third figure, the face and voice a bitter  
revelation.

“Falcred.” hissed Elrond.

“She was to be mine. It was agreed.” The anguished face of the Man looked  
in angry bewilderment at the figure next to Morgurth.

“Silence, puppy!” The Orc Captain backhanded the man viciously across the  
face, knocking him to the ground.

Falcred regained his feet, blood on his lip, a horrified look of  
realisation coming over his face. He looked at Gil, bound and helpless, up  
to his now silent mentor, then over at Elrond’s stricken face.

He drew his blade and faced the Captain.

“Falcred! No!” the cloaked figure twisted in the saddle.

But it was too late, the young man lunged wildly. The Captain’s heavy blade  
swung, once to deflect the blow and knock his opponent to the ground. Then  
again to finish him, his other hand jerking his prisoner so that she choked  
and sobbed. Contemptuously his foot pushed the body over the edge of the  
bridge, to fall unheeded to the fire below.

Above her bonds Gil’s eyes squeezed briefly in regret. ‘Falcred, you poor  
misguided fool.’

But she could not spare any more time for him. She fixed her gaze on  
Elrond. She knew what must happen. What he must choose. There could be no  
other way.

‘Oh my love.’ She cried silently, ‘Forgive me that I have brought you to  
this.’

She looked upon him, drinking in every detail, ingraining the sight of him  
upon her eyes and mind. Perhaps she could survive, stay alive until Gil-  
galad’s army breached the Tower, until Elrond came for her. She tried not  
to think of what was to come, but only of this moment.

 

 

“Brith.” Isildur’s voice was deadly as he addressed Morgurth’s companion.

The cloaked figure pushed its hood back. “Prince of Gondor.” He spat  
derisively.

“Traitor.” snarled Isildur.

“Seducer.”

“So...” Isildur sneered, “That is what this is all about. Jealousy because  
she preferred me.”

“You tricked her.” Brith’s voice was low and menacing. “Enticed her from me  
with baubles and trinkets.”

Isildur laughed harshly. “However it was, she is my wife now, mother of my  
children, and you can never have her.”

“No?” growled Brith. “In her heart she is still mine. It is my face she  
sees in her dreams, my arms she yearns for at night.”

Isildur’s face tightened with rage.

“And when we have crushed your puny army of Elves and Men.” snarled Brith,  
“I shall march into Annúminas, and take her back!”

Isildur’s hand flew to his sword-hilt, but its place was empty.

Brith laughed. “Soon enough, my lord.” He dripped the words, “We will meet  
on the field of battle, and then we shall see, once and for all, who shall  
lay claim to her.”

 

 

“So then,” Morgurth’s sibilant hiss raked Elrond’s ears, “I take it that  
you do not wish to accept our offer?”

The Elf-Lord’s jaw tightened with barely restrained fury and his eyes  
blazed with a terrible anger. “There shall be no peace. This parlay has  
been a travesty. The full wrath of our army shall be unleashed upon you.  
And by Elbereth I swear, that not one stone of this filthy place shall  
remain upon another.”

The evil sound came again from the empty pit that was Morgurth’s face, and  
the party of the Dark Lord turned back towards the gate.

Gil was dragged back into the dark mouth of the gatehouse, her eyes stil  
locked to his, love and courage battling with her fear.

The iron trap of the portcullis lowered into place, the dark bars shadowing  
her face.

He could not speak, he could not call out sacred words of love for these  
evildoers to hear, but in his look he said everything to her.

‘Be strong, my love, whatever happens.’

The great doors began to close, timbers groaning, the space narrowing.

‘Stay alive. I will come for you.’

With a final, awful shudder the gap closed, the gate shut and barred.  
Trapping her. The drawbridge began to raise, creaking and straining. The  
last barrier cutting her off from him, separating them with a widening pit  
of fire.

He could no longer keep the agony from his face, no longer stop the cry of  
anguish that rose from the depth of his heart. He clutched the wand as if  
he would crush it in his hand.

“My lord.” The voice was Isildur’s again.

He looked round wildly at the Man, his eyes tortured.

“Listen to me, Elrond.” The Prince laid a hand upon his shoulder again.  
“And take heart.” He fixed the Elf with a piercing gaze. “If there is one  
who has the strength and wit to survive that place, it is she.”

A terrible sadness was upon Elrond’s face.

“What have I done?” He cried. “I have forsaken her. Abandoned her to  
bondage and torment.”

“Elrond!” Isildur’s voice was insistent. “Rally yourself. She needs you to  
be strong now. Return to your king.” He sat back in his saddle, a  
formidable anger on his face. “We have a war to fight. A war that we must  
win.”

He wheeled his stallion, and Elrond followed suit wordlessly, With a cry of  
rage and defiance, Isildur spurred his warhorse, and the others following,  
sprang at a gallop back down the road.

Back to his king, back to the army, back to war.

This time they would see it finished.

 

 

For those in Gil-galad’s council chamber, time passed slowly as they waited  
for the Herald to return. Galeria had been summoned to tend Sergeant Gillow  
but he refused to go with her to the hospital.

“Nay, my lady.” He shook his grey head decisively. “I must wait for Master  
Elrond’s return, for he may have news.”

Lord Gil-galad’s heart was heavy, the plan laid bare to his incisive mind,  
but he spoke not of it to the others. Let them hope yet a while. He had no  
doubt that his Herald had the strength to choose the path of duty, and that  
for the good of all would even give the Lady Gildinwen up to the Dark Lord.  
But as to how Elrond would fare in the wake of such a decision, he knew  
not. For himself he felt anger and outrage, that one of his household, a  
loyal and faithful retainer, could be so savagely betrayed. ‘They have used  
her love as a weakness to ensnare her,’ he thought, ‘and now they attempt  
the same with Elrond.’

Mardil alone was busy. He must act to secure the camp, all passwords and  
codes had to be considered compromised. He tried not to think of why, but  
only to concentrate on the practicalities of changing them.

Will had been set to watch for the approach of the party, and at last he  
appeared in the doorway.

“Noble Sirs,” he bowed, “They have returned.”

Gil-galad rose to his feet as Elrond stooped to enter the room. Prince  
Isildur was at the shoulder of the Elf-Lord, and the look on their faces  
said all.

Beside the High King, Galeria drew a sharp breath, pressing a hand to her  
mouth. All were silent as Elrond walked slowly towards his King, his  
haunted eyes seeking those of Lord Gil-galad.

Wordlessly he held out the Herald’s baton, grief a dark shadow on his face.  
Gil-galad took the wand, and with his other hand reached out to grip the  
Elf’s shoulder.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Elrond’s voice was little more than a hoarse  
whisper. “There will be no peace.”

“We know.” replied Gil-galad gravely. “But you are not the cause of it.”

Elrond looked slowly about the room, taking in the grim looks, Galeria’s  
white face and Mardil’s hard jaw.

Sergeant Gillow approached him, bowing his grizzled and bandaged head,  
“Forgive me, my lord.” His voice was sorrow-stricken. “Too late I saw the  
trap, and I could not prevent them taking her.”

“It is grievous indeed.” spoke Gil-galad, “That this should come upon one  
of our own.” He turned his proud and formidable gaze upon the company. “We  
cannot change what has happened. Guilt and recrimination are misplaced and  
unprofitable. Only victory can right this wrong, and the many others that  
Sauron has perpetrated against Middle Earth and her people.” He lifted the  
baton of peace and broke it in two, tossing the pieces aside. “He has  
chosen the path of war, let us prepare our armies to meet his.”

Around the room chins raised with pride, and chests swelled with purpose.

“Go now.” The Elven King raised his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Ready  
yourselves for the battle to come. I doubt not that it will be soon.” With  
a shuffle of feet and rumble of voices, the company took their leave, one  
by one. Gil-galad caught at the sleeve of his Herald. “Elrond.” He spoke  
quietly, “Stay awhile.”

“My lord.” The Elf’s eyes were hollow and aching.

“Is it as we thought?” The High King knew his words would cause pain, but  
they must be said. “Her life for your betrayal?”

“Yes.” The reply flat and empty.

“I am sorrowed beyond words that this choice has come to you, my son.” Gil-  
galad’s voice was heavy, “And proud beyond telling of your courage in  
making it.”

“It was not my courage alone, my lord.” A spark came to Elrond’s darkened  
eyes. “She stood in the shadow of that evil gatehouse and bid me begone.”

“Aye.” The Elven King nodded solemnly, “She is a true daughter of her  
House, strong in the blood of the Faithful. Take heart, my friend. Few  
there are, that enter the gates of Barad-dûr and return, but she is one who  
has the strength for it.”

Elrond looked up at his King, “Thank you.” He whispered. “Your words are a  
comfort to me, my lord.” The shadow deepened, “Though I fear they may not  
be enough.” His words were raw, ragged with pain. “For I have abandoned my  
love to the Enemy, she who was both my weakness and my strength. My soul  
has lost its harbour and I know not how I will face the days to come.”

 

 

[7] Black Death. This is made up, as there is no reference to the real name  
of this character in the Silmarillion or Lord of the Rings.


	25. Fall of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

AN: This chapter is dedicated to Judy, with many thanks for your continued  
support and feedback. Also to Nemis - I’m so sorry!

 

 

The alarum sounded in the Alliance camp before dawn the next day. Forays  
had sallied forth from both gates of Barad-dûr, and the air was once more  
alive with the wrath of the Dark Lord. The noise of running feet, the shout  
of voices and the clashing of armour sounded throughout Gil-galad’s  
headquarters, as his warriors prepared for battle. Only Halmir sat still  
amid the bustle and scurry. He had prepared everything. His master’s armour  
lay cleaned and ready, his weapons sharp and bright, but of the Lord of  
Imladris there was no sign.

After their return the night before, from the aborted parlay at Sauron’s  
Fortress, and following his talk with the King, Elrond had shut himself  
away in the Lady Gildinwen’s chamber, and even the call to arms had not  
drawn him out.

A firm step and a clatter of arms announced Lord Gil-galad as he strode  
from his council chamber, gathering his entourage and guard as he went.  
Halmir stood mutely in the doorway as the King approached.

Gil-galad stopped beside the squire for a moment, and placed a hand on the  
lad’s shoulder. “Patience, Halmir.” He spoke quietly, “He will join us when  
he is ready.”

The boy nodded glumly, his face worried, and he took his lonely watch again  
as the war party moved off, taking most of the inhabitants with it.

 

 

Elrond had heard the trumpet call and the answering shouts of the warriors,  
but the sounds had no meaning for him. He sat defeated, motionless, head  
bowed over the table as he had been all night. In his hands he cradled his  
harp but the strings were as silent as his heart. The room was heavy with  
her, items of her clothing on pegs, papers written in her hand, the flower  
he had given her, the bed where they had shared so many nights. The scent  
and memory of her was an agony, a torment. Guilt and grief filled him, and  
in the long dark night he had wept many tears.

‘Oh Gil.’ He whispered. ‘Great is my sorrow that I have brought this upon  
you. If not for me, you would have already have returned to your home, to  
live the rest of your days in happy ignorance.’ Despair engulfed him, black  
and suffocating as he thought of her in that hellish place. Did she lie  
bound in some dark, foetid prison? Broken and hurt. Was she even now under  
the torturer’s knife? Had she gone from the world already? He railed  
uselessly against the dark walls of fate, as sheer and impenetrable as the  
Black Tower. He knew not if she were alive or dead. He knew not which he  
wished for. But his arms ached with emptiness and his heart had been torn  
open.

A sliver of dawn’s first light entered the room, falling across the table  
in front of him. He watched it in a deadened silence, unable even to think  
anymore, weariness pressing on him, a dark gulf pulling him down. Slowly  
the streak moved over, tracking the rising of the sun, and the passing of  
the morning. Still Elrond made no move, still nothing stirred in his  
scorched soul.

Now the light touched upon the tiny plant, the leaves turning slowly to  
greet it, and as Elrond watched, the bud burst, and the petals unfolded.  
White and delicate, the Elrhîw raised its newborn head to the morning  
light, a beacon of beauty in the midst of darkness.

He took a deep breath. Then another. A feeling stirred within him, breaking  
through the cloud of his despair. He recalled the words of comfort that had  
been spoken by his King, and by another, ‘She has the strength for it.’ A  
terrible anger formed within him, an iron rage, a white hot fury. He  
plunged it into the lake of his pain, tempering it, and from them forged a  
will of steel, edged with a deadly purpose.

He set aside his harp and rose to his feet, he had sat here too long  
already.

 

 

“Halmir!” Elrond’s voice roused the boy from his miserable wait, and he  
leapt up, his heart filling with joy.

His master entered the room, and headed for the wash table. He emptied the  
pitcher into the basin, and plunged his head into the icy water. Emerging  
he shook his wet hair from his eyes, and looked down at the peacemaker’s  
tabard that he still wore. With a snarl of disgust he ripped it off, and  
flung it, sodden, into the corner. Dragging his tunic over his head, he  
shrugged on the fresh one the boy held out.

As he fastened the heavy linen, Halmir was already holding up the padded  
aketon, helping him on with it, tightening the leather straps, then lifting  
his mail coat onto his shoulders and settling it into place. Elrond now  
raised his arms, and tears of pride were in the squire’s eyes as he  
fastened the green-gold plates around the limbs and shoulders of his lord.

Elrond flung back his hair and secured it roughly with a strip of cloth. He  
threw his cloak about his shoulders, then he held out his hands for his  
weapons. Weeping unashamedly the boy handed him first the quiver of golden  
arrows. Slinging it on his back, the Elf-Lord then reached out to take his  
long sword, sliding it home in its scabbard with one decisive sweep of his  
arm. Lastly he took his great bow in his hand, and with the fire of a  
thousand warriors blazing from his face he strode from the room.

Straight onto the field of battle, Halmir following at a run, past the  
ready ranks of warriors, both Elf and Man. The air was thick with the  
arrows and bolts of the Enemy but he heeded them not. Here was the Elf-  
Lord, fearless and mighty, with courage and a terrible purpose shining in  
his face, strength and power in every stride that took him to the side of  
his King.

 

 

“My Lord!” The soldier had to shout to make himself heard above the howling  
gale.

Gil-galad turned, dark hair whipped about his face by the wind. He stood  
atop a jagged protrusion, while below and around him a battle raged to  
rival the storm. For weeks now the Dark Lord had sent forth his soldiers.  
Driving them relentlessly, day and night, against those of the Alliance.  
Desperate now, and cornered, he flung everything at the besiegers in an  
attempt to break free.

The sky was dark with roiling clouds and from behind them Orodruin’s fury  
shook the ground, and filled the air with a fell and stinking ash. The dead  
littered the ground, while the living fought on, ankle-deep in the blood-  
soaked mud. The Alliance were holding, Gil-galad at the West Gate, and  
Elendil at the North, but the High King feared that the Dark Lord, with  
nothing to lose and all to gain, would fight to the last of his thinning,  
gaunt-faced troops.

“What is it?” he turned to the messenger, cupping an ear against the scream  
of the wind.

“Lord Elendil sends to say that Sauron has withdrawn his forces within the  
North Gate. He wishes to know whether he should reinforce you here, or  
remain in position?”

Gil-galad thought for a time. What was he up to? Was it a trick, so they  
would leave the North Gate unprotected and allow his escape that way? Or  
would he concentrate all at the West Gate, in an attempt to force his way  
out?

The wind blew a foul smattering of wet ash into his face, and he wiped it  
away with the edge of his cloak. Orodruin. That was the key. Sauron’s  
forces were depleted now, he could not hope to win against them in open  
battle, but if he reached the slopes of Mount Doom, the Ring would give him  
great power. The Elven-king had his decision.

“Tell your King to bring two thirds of his force here, with all haste, and  
leave the rest at the North Gate.” That should be enough to hold an attempt  
at breakout until they could reinforce. Here at the West Gate, where the  
road led to Orodruin, was where the greatest danger lay.

“Círdan!” The High King turned to his lieutenant with a grim and determined  
look. “It is time. The last hours are upon us.” A look of fearsome purpose  
was on Gil-galad’s face. “Summon all the reserves. We must prepare to face  
Sauron himself.” And raising Aeglos he leapt with great strides down to the  
field of slaughter, making his way through the melee, to the front of the  
army. His squire followed at his shoulder, the proud battlestandard of the  
High King drawing his warriors together, uniting them in body and spirit.

Forcing back the remnants of the Dark Lord’s troop, Gil-galad’s army took  
its place in front of the West Gate. Every soldier was on the field. Many  
with injuries, both bound and fresh, all with a bone-aching weariness, and  
yet every weapon was sharp and ready, and in every face a proud defiance  
shone. From behind them a great cheer arose, and the sound of horses  
heralded the arrival of Elendil and Isildur, their soldiers taking up the  
flanks.

“Hail! My lords!” cried the King of Men, leaping from his steed to join  
them, a look of terrible joy on his worn face. “At last we are come to it.”  
He drew Narsil, the light of the blade dazzling in the gloom, “I will not  
leave this field till it be finished, one way or the other.”

Isildur, grim-faced and silent, took his place at his father’s side, and  
together, Elf and Man, they awaited the approach of Darkness.

At the right hand of Lord Gil-galad stood the Shipwright, and to his left  
Lord Elrond. Glorfindel was beside him, his white horse waiting, ears  
pricked and nostrils flaring, for his master’s command. A trumpeter was at  
the shoulder of the High King and above them all their colours were alive  
against the angry sky - battle standards of Arnor and Gondor, and the  
silver stars of Gil-galad. But the Banner of Amarnon was absent, standing  
folded and silent in the council chamber, for the hand that should carry it  
was chained in the Fortress of Barad-dûr.

 

 

The heavens lowered, clouds blackening and boiling above the Citadel,  
lightening thrashing the tops of the towers, and thunder cracking through  
the sky. Beneath their feet the very ground shuddered and quaked, and from  
the pits flanking the West Road, fire spat and flared. Ash began to rain in  
with a vengeance, falling hot and hissing to the ground, choking and  
stinking. Ahead of them the Black Gates opened again, and this time the  
Black Horsemen were seven in number, the thunder of their misbegotten  
mounts rivalling the fire mountain behind. Behind them poured the full  
might of the Enemy, Orcs and Men, black and foul, corrupted and enslaved.  
Pressed by fear, hate and desperation, they would feel no pity and give no  
quarter. Headlong they rushed at the Alliance, driving forward, all their  
force in a single thrust to punch into the host, and win a way through for  
their Master.

Elrond stepped forward, plucking an arrow from his quiver. Notching it, he  
drew back his great bow, and waited. Beside him, each of the mighty  
warriors drew his weapon, sword, lance and spear gleaming and ready. The  
hooves hammered down the road, the hideous flapping creatures riding the  
crest of the black wave. The Lord of Imladris took aim at the leader,  
closing his vision until he saw only his target, was joined with him in  
that sure promise of a strike, then he let fly. True and straight, flinging  
down the Wraith with a screech of rage. Less than a second later,  
Glorfindel’s lance struck, unhorsing a second foul creature.

There was no time to draw again, however, as the Black horde were upon  
them. Elrond flung aside his bow, and drew his sword, as the Nazgûl rode  
towards that line of gleaming points. Slashing and hacking at the demonic  
mounts, parrying and thrusting at the evil riders, each warrior was pinned  
down by a Wraith. Glorfindel, Elendil and Isildur. Each leader locked in  
his own fight, his own battle for life. Gil-galad swiftly unhorsed his  
opponent, and kept him at bay with Aeglos. Elrond had laid open the side of  
his Wraith’s mount, and the horse stumbled, throwing the creature to the  
ground. With a cry, the Elf-lord was upon him, slashing with his sword,  
spilling that black blood upon the ground, but the fell creatures had a  
power over death, and the Nazgûl raised himself to fight on.

Slowly, slowly, the creatures of the Darkness pushed against the army of  
the light, pressing them inexorably, foot by foot down that road. Down to  
the barricade, and past it. When they reached the end of the causeway the  
force of the Enemy would spill out. The trumpets sounded a rally, and the  
soldiers of the Alliance made ready to catch the horde, to contain the  
advance. Still backward, each step a bitter failure, a desperately fought  
action. They neared the end of the causeway, and as they did, a terrible  
shout went up from the Black Horde, a cry that echoed the thunderous sky  
and the rumble of the mountain. The sound of horses again, and from the  
darkness, two more Wraiths appeared. Their black mounts galloped heedlessly  
through the melee, while between them a third horse, more fiendish than any  
yet seen, carried a shape so awful, a black darkness so deep that the eye  
could scarce look upon it. A cloak of terror was about him, and a crown of  
fearfulness upon his awful head. In his hand a great sword shone with the  
blackest fire, and upon his dreadful hand shone the might of the One Ring.  
Ignoring the leaders of the Alliance, so effectively pinned down by his  
lieutenants, the Lord Sauron set his demonic horse at the fiery pit and  
with a single great leap, crossed it and was away, carrying the source of  
his power back to its wellspring.

 

 

Exhausted and filthy, the soldiers of the Alliance again drew up their  
lines. But this time the battlefield was not of their choosing. Sauron’s  
troops occupied the slopes of Orodruin, his hordes clustered about the  
skirts of that fierce mountain. A rain of jeers and a hail of searing ash  
fell upon the weary lines of Men and Elves, as they surrounded the force of  
the Dark Lord. This would be the last stand. Whoever won this day would win  
the War. The fate of all of Middle Earth rode upon it, and the knowledge  
was etched deep on the faces and hearts of all who stood there.

At the centre of the Alliance, Gil-galad and Elendil stood side by side,  
Man and Elf together against the Darkness. The High King turned to face his  
warriors, lifting his voice, a silver trumpet cutting through the roar of  
the storm and the shouts of the enemy.

“My warriors, my allies!” He cried. “This shall be the last day of battle.  
Only hold fast this one last time and we shall be free. I know you are  
weary, but the enemy is weak and desperate. He has nothing left but what we  
see. Let us see this blight wiped from our land once and for all. Fight  
with me!” He raised Aeglos, a defiant gleam. “For I shall not leave this  
field alive unless we have victory!”

A roar and a great drumming of arms surged through the ranks, as both Man  
and Elf raised his weapon and his voice, in a single shout of defiance and  
challenge. The trumpets sounded the advance and with a terrible cry the two  
sides sprang at each other, to clash in blood and gore for the final time.

Elf and Orc, Man and Dwarf, each found himself in a space on the field, a  
weapon in his hand, an enemy to the front and a death to be dealt between  
them.

 

 

From the ranks of Sauron’s forces a warrior fought his way towards the  
battlestandard of Gondor. Reaching it he found Man and Elf, shoulder to  
shoulder, piling the dead around them in a bloody brotherhood. He pushed  
back the visor of his helm, and no other challenge was required. Elrond  
turned his blade towards him with a snarl, but Brith bowed slightly.

“Forgive me, Elf-Lord.” His voice was calm, as though he desired nothing  
more than to be in this place. “But I believe that Prince Isildur has the  
prior claim.”

Elrond snatched a furious glance at the Man, who nodded with a grim  
satisfaction, “Aye, my lord.” He growled, “‘Tis true. Though I would be  
glad for you to act as my second in this matter.”

“Indeed,” Brith continued, “If I prevail over the pride of Gondor, I shall  
be honoured to meet the Master of Imladris.”

“Either way.” Spat Isildur. “You will see your death here.”

With a roar the Men set to. Heavy swords, two handed and massive, they  
hacked and slashed at each other. Blade on blade. Hew and cleave. Attack  
and defend. It would be a contest of endurance. Blade on armour, denting  
and smashing. Blow upon blow. Forward and back. Steps stumbling and leaden.  
Brith landed a heavy hit on his opponent’s shoulder, forcing him to one  
knee. Then he lifted his sword to hack at the exposed neck, but with a cry  
of utter rage, Isildur pushed himself upwards, ramming an armoured shoulder  
into the other man, pushing him backwards. Not giving Brith a moment to  
recover, the Prince slashed with his sword, cutting under the arm, the  
mighty steel slicing through the mail links and into flesh and bone. Blood  
gushed from the wound, spurting brightly, the red messenger of death, and  
the traitor fell to his knees, sword loose in his nerveless hand. With a  
terrible cry, Isildur swung his great blade again, and swept the head from  
the body with a single mighty blow. The steel helm, with its gory contents,  
rolled down the slope to come to rest at Elrond’s feet. He looked down upon  
it for a moment, his mouth twisted with a bitter satisfaction, then he  
stepped over it, as though it were naught but a piece of rubbish on the  
ground, and clapping Isildur upon the shoulder, raised his sword to meet  
the next enemy.

 

 

For hour upon hour the battle raged. To and fro the sides heaved across  
that filthy field, time and again they clashed, bloodying and blunting  
their weapons. The dead piled up, the ash rained down, and the gore  
thickened upon the ground, still neither side would give.

At last Sauron himself came forth. His dark and fiery sword vanquished  
mortal warriors with a single blow, and around him the darkness flowed and  
coiled like a living thing. Terror was struck into the souls of Men and  
Elves at his approach, and he cut a swathe through their host like a scythe  
of death. But the heart of the Alliance was of the sternest stuff, and five  
of the mightiest warriors of the Age stood fast to meet him. Two were Men,  
and three were of the Firstborn, and between them they were strong in power  
and might, steadfastness and wisdom, courage and honour.

The Dark Lord faced them, and turned his deadly gaze upon each in turn.  
Those of the Firstborn had encountered him before, but his face had been  
fair then, whereas now it was terrible to behold, and behind the swirling  
dark within which he hid, a great heat burned. Black fire leapt from his  
sword and a nameless fear surrounded him. On his finger gleamed the  
heartstone of his terrible power, the Ring, with which he had enslaved his  
people and corrupted the hearts of Men, sunk the foundations of his  
terrible Tower and with which he would bring apocalypse on all the lands of  
Middle Earth.

Gil-galad and Elendil strode forward, Aeglos gleaming with a deadly  
purpose, and Narsil sharp with the light of the stars. No words were  
spoken, their weapons said all as they struck in unison. To their flanks,  
Elrond, Círdan and Isildur circled with swords drawn, ready to attack any  
tiny opening, to exploit any momentary weakness. But there were none. The  
Dark Lord’s evil blade was fast and deadly. Thrust after thrust of Aeglos  
was turned aside, swipe after swipe of Narsil effortlessly parried. And  
between each defence, his fearful blade attacked, pressing back upon the  
two, flickering and probing for any weakness, any lapse in concentration.  
The heat from the weapon was palpable as it hissed through the air.

 

 

Elendil fell first. The terrible black blade piercing his sword arm so that  
he dropped the point of the weapon, embedding it in the ground. Pain rushed  
across the Man’s face and he sobbed out with a heart wrenching sound,  
pitching forward. A terrible crack was heard, as Narsil, weakened by the  
impacts of the Dark Lord, broke beneath his master. Isildur fell back with  
a cry to take his father in his arms. Círdan stepped up to take the King’s  
place beside Lord Gil-galad, and together they pressed Sauron back.

“Father.” Isildur’s voice was urgent as he lifted Elendil’s head to cradle  
it. The wound in the King’s arm smouldered and smoked, slowly consuming  
itself in a dreadful agony, working a terrible path to his heart.

“My son.” His voice trembled with pain, but there was no fear in it. “I go  
to the Doom of Men.”

“No!” the word tore from Isildur’s throat.

“You are King now.” Elendil’s voice was fading with his body. “All rests on  
you my son.” His hand scrabbled for the hilt of Narsil as his eyes  
darkened. “Take my sword. It is yours now.” His breath rattled and then  
fled away into the ash-filled air.

The Prince of Gondor, King now, laid his head upon his father’s breast and  
wept aloud, while beside him, his squire Ohtar looked on in despair.

 

 

The Elves held the ground against Sauron, who of old had tried to corrupt  
them. Gil-galad struck and thrust with Aeglos, while Círdan and Elrond  
wielded their swords on either side. But even Elves can weary, and they had  
fought many days and hours already, besides which the fall of Elendil was a  
sad blow for Gil-galad. Slowly and inexorably the Dark Lord gained upon  
them. The power of the Ring invincible in this place of its making. With  
every step that they gave, a little of the heart went out of them.

“Where is Isildur?” cried Elrond, knowing that one more blade might make  
all the difference.

“I know not.” Replied Círdan bitterly, “He has his own burden to bear.” He  
stumbled, catching his foot on the uneven rock, and fell to one knee.  
Sauron’s blade snaked in for a bite, but Gil-galad turned it with Aeglos,  
thrusting it out of the way. Alas, in doing so he exposed himself, just for  
a moment, but it was enough. The Dark Lord struck, his sword thrust a great  
smoking wound through the body of the Elven King.

“No!” Elrond’s cry was torn from his heart, and he cast aside his sword to  
catch the falling body of his Lord, his King, his friend. But the light had  
already gone out. He that had been the High King of the Elves was no more,  
and even as Elrond clutched the corpse in his arms, the dark fire consumed  
it all so that only ash was left, to be lifted and borne away on the wind.  
Círdan looked on aghast, his sword arm lifeless, his eyes bereft.

A laugh came from behind them, a great, black, evil laugh. One that would  
fill the world with pain and bind its people in Darkness for ever. Sauron  
dropped his sword point to the ground and lifted his hand, the Ring glowing  
bright and golden as he revelled in its power, gloating over the death of  
the mightiest of the Elves.

 

 

Suddenly the ground shook about them, not a rumbling quake such as they had  
felt all day, but a rhythmic pounding. From out of the darkness of the left  
flank a horse appeared, a great black beast, a warhorse fierce and brave,  
screaming defiance as he charged at full tilt. Upon his back rode the  
Prince of Gondor, King now of all free Men. On his face a searing rage was  
etched and his eyes burned in fearless revenge. In his left hand was  
couched a mighty lance, its point sharp and deadly, and in his right was  
raised the hilt-shard of Narsil. Straight at the Dark Lord he rode, veering  
neither to the left nor the right, and skewered his dark body through with  
the lance. Sauron screamed a terrible curse of rage and ripped the lance  
from his body, casting it aside, but as he did Isildur leapt from his  
horse, and with a flash of starry steel he cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand  
so that it fell to the ground. The scream turned to a wail of despair as  
the Dark Lord’s body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and his spirit fled  
away into the darkness.

 

 

AN: Phew! That was exhausting. So, a little different from the movie, let  
me know what you think.


	26. Love and Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

A stricken howl came from the Nazgûl, and they took flight across the  
field, disappearing into the darkness. Now a great cry of loss and dismay  
was raised among the Host of Mordor, that the Dark Lord had fallen, his  
power swept away and his lieutenants scattered. Many threw down their arms  
and fled from the field, some few fought on to meet a bloody end. From  
across the Shadow mountains, a great wind arose in the West, and swept in  
upon the ravaged land. Blowing before it the clouds of ash and darkness,  
and bringing upon its fresh and wholesome air, the faint scent of the sea.  
And as the victors stood in silence, awed and exhausted, the sky cleared  
and the sun shone her bright face upon the place of battle.

Elrond rose slowly to his feet, his arms empty now wherein he had gathered  
his fallen King. In disbelief he looked down at the ground, and about him,  
as if unable to comprehend what had happened.

“He is gone.” He turned to Círdan, his jaw set hard against the grief that  
threatened to overcome him. “How can it be?”

The Shipwright’s face was a mask of agony and bereavement, tears were upon  
his face and he had no words.

 

 

In front of them, Prince Isildur kicked disgustedly at the foul and empty  
body that had been Sauron’s, his mouth twisted with a bitter satisfaction.  
The severed hand lay dark and lifeless on the bloody ground, but the Ring  
on the dead finger gleamed pleasingly, invitingly. He reached down to take  
it.

“No!” Elrond cried out in warning.

Too late.

The Ring slid easily into Isildur’s grasp, warm and heavy. Comforting and  
sustaining. It felt right. He looked in wonder at its surface, the gold  
glowing without heat, the writing swirling and fading.

“Isildur.”

He looked round to see the grave face of the Master of Imladris.

“Isildur.” The Elf spoke again. “You cannot keep it.”

A thrill of fear ran through his body, and he clutched his prize tightly in  
his hand.

“And why not?” his voice was guarded. “Did I not slay the Dark Lord?”

“Yes.” Elrond spoke quietly.

Isildur took a step backwards, feeling a vague threat from the warrior.

“You have shown the greatest courage today.” Elrond continued. “This deed  
shall be sung in legend as among the mightiest ever told.”

The King of Gondor relaxed a little, mollified.

Elrond spoke again. “But you need to show greater strength yet.” His voice  
was deadly serious. “The Ring is very dangerous. All the power of Sauron is  
bound in it. While it exists he can never be truly defeated.”

“What are you saying?” The Man’s voice was tinged with suspicion.

“You must destroy it.” The Elf-lord pointed up the smoking mountain. “The  
Cracks of Doom, in whose fire it was forged. Only there can it be unmade.”

Distrust rippled through Isildur, and he gripped his prize till it dug into  
his flesh.

“No.” His voice was flat. “It is mine. A weregild for my father’s death.”

“It is too dangerous.” Elrond tried to keep the desperation from his voice.

But Isildur could feel a possibility. Like a whisper in his mind, the Ring  
could bring him his dearest wish. Its wordless voice was soft and cajoling,  
promising him power and glory, and that which he desired above all things.

“No.” he said again, stepping back. “I will not give it up.” He raised the  
fist in which he held it, “With it I can win her back again. She will  
forget him and be mine once more. Mine alone.”

“Isildur!” Elrond’s face was distraught, “You risk bringing the Darkness on  
us again.”

The Man looked at him in a slow agony, “If I destroy the Ring I will lose  
her.”

“And was that not your council to me?” cried Elrond, his voice strangled,  
“At the gates of Barad-dûr? To give up the woman I loved for the sake of  
our victory?”

“Aye, it was.” He looked the other in the eye, “But I have not your  
strength, Elf-Lord.” Then he felt the Ring tickle him. “Or maybe you did  
not love as I do.”

 

 

Elrond reeled as though the Man had stabbed him. ‘No!’ he cried inside. It  
was not true. Was it? Guilt washed over him again. ‘Oh, Gil’ his heart  
wept, ‘Where are you?’

His shoulders slumped in grief and defeat, and he watched Isildur stride  
away. He felt alone, an empty desolation in his soul, he had lost his love  
and his King was dead. The brightest star, the crowning glory of the  
Noldor, had left the world. He gazed slowly around him, at the aftermath of  
the battle, the wounded warriors and the piles of dead. In the far  
distance, the clouds began to clear about the Fortress. The gates would be  
open now, undefended. He felt a great urgency and fear come on him. He must  
go. Now. Find her. He retrieved his sword, sheathed it and began to make  
his way down the mountain.

“My Lord.” The Shipwright’s voice brought him up short. Elrond looked round  
in astonishment, but the Elder Elf’s face was gravely serious.

“My Lord,” Círdan continued, “You are needed here.”

Elrond looked about him again, and he felt the weight of many eyes upon  
him, Man and Elf. Bewildered and lost. Seeking for comfort, for guidance,  
for leadership.

Vilya felt warm and heavy on his breast, and it was like the touch of his  
King upon his heart. Calling him to duty, to the care of the people  
commended to him. A task and honour that he had accepted.

He bowed his head momentarily, hearing again the voice of his Lord whom,  
even from beyond the veil of death, he would always obey. Grief and search  
would have to wait. He straightened, and squaring his shoulders, returned  
to Círdan.

“Come then.” Wisdom and authority weighed heavy in his voice, “Let us do  
what must be done.”

 

 

Mardil watched in abhorrent fascination as the man gulped down the soup,  
wiping his mouth with a lean hand, while Elrond felt himself torn between  
compassion and horror.

“Forgive me.” A white-toothed grin split the dirty, haggard face. “It has  
been many days since I last had food.” He eagerly spooned some more of the  
broth into his mouth, following it with chunks of bread, chewing hurriedly.  
“There was precious little to eat these last weeks, and we prisoners were  
last in line.” His body was gaunt and filthy, consumed by itself. His hair  
had been cropped close to the skull, and his wrists and ankles bore weeping  
shackle sores. He was dressed in ragged remnants of Anárion’s livery and  
about his neck was fastened an iron collar bearing the mark of his gaoler.

Mardil consulted the paper in his hand, “You were imprisoned beneath the  
smallest north east tower?”

“That’s right.” The man nodded, “There were a few of us there, mostly  
captains of Gondor. We were relatively fortunate,” he shuddered, “the talk  
was that common soldiers went to the kitchens. And I don’t mean to get  
fed.” He added grimly.

“But the Lady Gildinwen was not with you?” Mardil pressed gently.

“No.” the Captain shook his head mutely over a full mouth, then swallowed,  
“I never saw her.” He looked up sadly, “I’m sorry.”

“Do you have any idea where they might have held her?” Elrond steeled his  
voice to remain level, although he felt like screaming in desperation. For  
days now, the search had gone on, and still no sign had been found. Where  
was she? What had happened to her? Had she been starved and manacled like  
this man? Tortured? Or worse. He forced himself not to think of it, nothing  
could be gained by the torment. He pushed the pain and the fear deep down  
inside him, crushing it into a dark knot.

“No, my lord.” The prisoner’s face was sorrowful. “We were probably the  
most high-ranking prisoners they had and she was not with us.” He shrugged,  
“ But you’ve seen for yourself, the place is a city, and the dungeons a  
labyrinth beneath it. She could have been anywhere. And there were rumours,  
of course.”

“Rumours?” Elrond leaned forward, frowning.

“Of deeper places, below even the dungeons, buried in the depths of the  
earth.” He looked uncomfortable under the Elf-Lord’s scrutiny. “Places from  
which there was no return.” He was silent for a moment, then raised his  
spoon again. “But as I say, my Lord, only rumours.”

Elrond nodded in resignation, and left the man to finish his meal. He had  
been to the Tower for himself, and as the Man had said, it was a city. An  
enormous sprawling Fortress, rambling and random. Keeps rising, floor upon  
floor, stair upon stair. Tunnels and steps leading down, down into  
darkness, to dungeons and foul pits. A labyrinthine maze of interconnecting  
passages and chambers. Mardil had set men to search it, methodically, room  
by room. They had found and freed many slaves and prisoners, and brought  
forth many more dead. But she was not among them. Questioning of freed  
prisoners and enemy captives had shed no light. Had she escaped? Had she  
been taken from the Tower before its fall? Was she already dead? Elrond  
felt he might go mad with waiting.

Every day he must attend to his duties, taking on the mantle left by Gil-  
galad, for all of Middle Earth now looked to him for leadership. Filling  
that void as best he might, he pushed aside his pain, his loss. For his  
King, he would grieve when he had the luxury of rest. For Gil, he knew not.

“Lord Elrond.” The gruff voice brought him to himself, and he looked round  
to see a rough bearded face.

“Master Farin.” Elrond bowed his head in greeting. “Thank you for coming.”

“Aye.” growled the Dwarf with a grin, “I see you have another customer for  
us.” He pointed to the prisoner who was now replete from his meal, “I have  
lost count of the number of those foul collars we have removed.”

“Indeed.” Elrond looked very grim. “But there is another matter upon which  
I would speak with you first.”

“Oh yes.” The other looked interested.

“Let us walk outside.” Elrond indicated the door.

Once in the open air he led Farin to the top of a rough outcrop where they  
had an uninterrupted view of Barad-dûr.

“Tell me, Master Dwarf.” asked Elrond, “What do you think of it? As a  
builder?”

“It is a magnificent piece of work and no mistake.” Farin’s gruff voice was  
admiring. “But there is no beauty in it. It is a foul place, evil seeps  
from the very walls. Blood, death and terror built it, fear and hate kept  
it strong.”

Elrond nodded slowly, his face very grave, and he turned to the Dwarf.  
“Tear it down, Master Farin.” His lips pressed together with surpressed  
emotion. “Level it to the ground. Let not one stone remain upon another.”

 

 

Mardil had almost decided to go to bed when the man appeared, hesitating in  
the doorway.

“Sir?” It was one of the men he had set to search the Tower. His voice was  
soft, a look of grim sorrow on the face.

Mardil felt a surge of fear, rising bitter in the back of his throat. He  
swallowed hard, and rose to his feet.

“What have you found?” His voice was tight.

The man held out something wrapped in a small bundle of rough cloth.

Without volition, Mardil felt his hands reach out and take it. As soon as  
he touched it, he knew it for what it was, and the knowledge bowed his head  
low.

“Where did you find it?”

“Most of the gaolers collected such things.” The soldier looked down, “This  
one had quarters in the lower North Tower.”

“I don’t suppose he was taken?”

“No, Sir.” The man shook his head, “Fled or killed.”

“Thank you for bringing it.”

Mardil closed his eyes for a moment, knowing his own grief would have to  
wait. First he must to Lord Elrond.

 

 

“My Lady.” The voice was quiet, but Galeria was not asleep, she had merely  
lain down on a spare cot to rest for a time.

“Yes, what is it?” She fumbled to turn up the lamp, expecting to see one of  
her assistants come to request help with a patient. “Halmir?”

Elrond’s squire stood grim-faced in the lamplight.

Immediately she sensed that something was wrong. “What has happened?” she  
asked, rising to her feet.

The young Elf gestured towards the shadows and Mardil came forward, a small  
bundle in his hand. Wordlessly he uncovered it, and Galeria clapped a hand  
over her mouth to stifle the cry that rose in her.

“When?” she gasped, staggering back to sit on the cot.

“Just a few minutes ago. We came straight here.”

“Does it mean....?” She left the rest unspoken.

“I know not.” Mardil’s voice was thick, and he swallowed heavily.

Galeria buried her head silently in her hands for a few moments, then she  
raised it questioningly. “You came here first?”

“Yes, my lady.” Halmir answered.

“Then he does not know yet?”

The squire shook his head, “We had hoped that you would accompany us....in  
case....” He did not finish.

She nodded slowly, wiping her eyes, then rose and wrapped her cloak about  
her. “Come then.” She reached out her hands to each of the lads, squeezing  
their shoulders encouragingly, but could find no words of comfort to  
speak.

 

 

Elrond sat in solitude, in the council chamber that had been Lord Gil-  
galad’s. The table before him was strewn with papers and documents, and his  
face was heavy with care. For many days now, he had eschewed rest. How  
could he face the night alone? Without her soft breath to soothe his  
dreams, her presence to comfort him, and her warm body to fill his arms? He  
rested his head in his hands, allowing himself a moment, only a moment, to  
think of her. No more, lest he be overcome.

“Where are you?” he whispered. “My little sleeper.” He closed his eyes  
against the pain. “I have searched everywhere. High and low. Every room of  
that accursed Tower. What have they done with you?”

Dark thoughts pressed upon him, and he forced them away. ‘No!’ he thought,  
‘Not unless I must.’ He scrubbed at his face with his hands, trying to  
banish his fears. Nights were always the worst. Sitting here alone, trying  
to distract himself with work, to surround himself with thoughts of duty.  
And yet that had its own price, for every echo of the chamber sounded with  
the voice of his King, and at every moment he expected to feel a heavy hand  
upon his shoulder. He felt bowed beneath the weight of it all, sorrow,  
loss, fear and responsibility, as though he were himself buried beneath  
that massive tower.

A slight sound at the door disturbed the dark mere of his thoughts, and he  
looked up, welcoming any distraction. Halmir looked in diffidently, and he  
bid the lad enter, a fondness softening his despair.

But when Mardil and Galeria followed him, their faces strained and white,  
all thoughts of diversion were banished, and his fear returned with a  
vengeance. Wordlessly he rose to his feet, setting his face against his  
heart, fixing it, immovable, in stone. With a strength he had never known,  
he steeled himself for the blow.

Mardil approached the table, his step slow and heavy, his bad foot dragging  
uncharacteristically. The blood had fled from his face and his eyes were  
drawn tight and dark. He raised them to meet those of the Elf-Lord, and  
almost reeled from the piercing of that look. In silence he placed his  
sorrowful offering in front of Elrond. He bowed his head and moved to lift  
the cloth, but a strong grip about his wrist prevented him.

Elrond placed his hand on top of the sad bundle, feeling at once what it  
contained. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to hold back the pain,  
then with a single descisive movement, he flung back the cloth.

In the centre of the rough fabric sat Gil’s mithril band. Quiesent and  
inert, dull in lustre and shrunken in size. Once again his ears echoed with  
the voice of his dead King, but this time the words did not raise hope,  
they dashed it.

‘...and none can take it from her while she lives.’

It was as though the last light in his life had gone out. Despair opened up  
around him, empty and hollow. With each breath he could not believe that he  
yet lived, that he was in this dark place. Alone. Grief threatened him now,  
clutching at his heart, stabbing at his eyes. He must release it or die.

Galeria took a tentative step towards him, but he snapped up a hand to halt  
her.

“Go.” He spared a single rough breath for the word.

“Elrond...” Galeria’s voice was thick and quiet.

He could not trust himself to speak again, but the flash of agony in the  
grey eyes was enough.

“Come.” She whispered, ushering the others towards the door. Tears were in  
the eyes of both the lads. Mardil for the loss of his mistress, and Halmir  
for the sorrow of his lord. Galeria glanced back once before she closed the  
door, but Elrond was lost in his own darkness.

 

 

Alone. So alone. Gone. They were gone. From his right hand and his left.  
Loss engulfed him. His heart, already flayed open, was pierced now with  
pure sorrow. The two he loved most. His lord and his King, his lady and his  
love. Torn from him. Flung into places unknown, where he could neither see  
nor follow. Tears came and he did not deny them. Weeping silently, head  
flung back, breath gasping, his grief, so long held back, ripped from him  
like a barb.

‘Gil. Oh my love.’ He cried, ‘Forgive me! Forgive me that I did not come in  
time.’ He bowed his head, and his tears dropped. ‘That I could not save  
you. Forgive me my weakness in loving you, and my strength in sacrificing  
you.’ For even as he wept he knew it could not have been otherwise. His  
love had doomed her.

He clutched a hand round Vilya, feeling the warmth that once lay against  
the skin of Gil-galad. He was adrift on a sea of pain, and duty was the  
only branch he had to cling to. He must live now for them, these two that  
had left their mark so deeply etched in his heart, a part of themselves  
still living within him. He must ensure that all they had fought and died  
for was protected and nurtured. He heaved a ragged breath. He had always  
known he would lose her, but that it should be now, with no happy times to  
treasure, no years together to comfort him with memories. And that his lord  
should be taken..... ‘Is this my fate?’ he thought, ‘To be always alone. To  
have love torn from my heart time and time again.’

But as he stood plunged in the darkness, he discerned a faint star of hope.  
What if she had removed the band herself? He knew that she could. A tiny  
spark lit itself in his breast, struggling to live. His longing fanned it,  
his need fed it and it strengthened, warming him just a little. Perhaps she  
yet lived. If not here, then .....somewhere.


	27. Return to Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Atop the scarp of Emyn Muil, Elrond turned his grey and looked back over  
the land of Mordor. In the distance a thin plume of smoke still rose from  
Orodruin, and the Mountains of Shadow cast their dark reflections over the  
plain of battle. So many years had passed in that dark land, so many lives  
ended, so much sorrow endured. A love found and lost. Strange that it  
should have been in the darkest of times that she had come to him, a tiny  
brightness to warm his heart and light his life.

Now it was time to leave. To follow the rest of the warriors and take the  
long road homeward. Lord Sauron had been defeated, cut down by the arm of  
Man. His Tower had been levelled and his spirit fled, weak and broken, into  
the wilderness. But for how long?

He shook his head slowly. Their victory, bought at the greatest cost, had  
not been completed. Whether the Darkness could rise again or nay, he did  
not know.

Beside his grey, a red-gold horse nickered quietly, ears pricked. He was  
accoutred for riding, in the manner of Men, and strapped in its familiar  
place, well wrapped against the elements, was the Banner of Amarnon.

But the saddle was empty, there was no Standard Bearer to see it to its  
last resting place, with the heir of Gil-galad. No Gildinwen to accompany  
her lord home.

The horse called again, a forlorn and questioning sound. As though he  
understood.

Elrond reached out a gentle hand to stroke the strong neck. “I know.” He  
whispered. “She is not with us.” He breathed deeply, feeling himself torn.  
He was leaving the land of Mordor without her. Having searched and waited  
for months, while Farin and his dwarves pulled the Fortress of Barad-dûr to  
the ground, stone by filthy stone. Finding nothing. She was not there, and  
he could stay in that dark place no longer.

Imladris called to him. Home. The green, shaded valley, the quiet comfort.  
His soul, scarred and battered, longed for its soothing sounds, its gentle  
air. For the familiar rooms and friendly faces. To see again the stars  
above the rim, to hear the trees sighing in the night. To walk barefoot in  
the dew-laden grass of the morning. To rest, to recover, to heal.

 

 

They were about two miles from Rivendell when Elrond finally gave in. The  
journey had been many weeks, but since they had started out that morning he  
had felt it, growing stronger with each step, reinforced by every familiar  
landmark along the trail. Now the sun was low and warm in the West, and  
their shadows were long across the moorland. In the distance he could just  
discern the tops of the trees at the head of the valley, and he was  
overcome with longing for it, with the knowledge that he was finally here.  
No more did he need to make do with dreaming of his haven, it was once  
again within his reach. His mount, sensing his rider’s impatience, began  
fretting and fidgeting. Elrond turned briefly to Halmir, wordlessly tossing  
him Loreglin’s lead rope, then with a whisper set his horse to a gallop.  
The grey needed no encouragement to head down the oft-travelled path. Eager  
to run, he stretched his legs to cover the distance, his master low over  
his neck. The fresh wind, scented with trees, blew in their faces, drawing  
out hair and mane. The sound of the hooves drummed on the dry earth, and an  
great exhilaration filled them. Past well known boulders, round rocky  
outcrops, they raced for home, the smell of late summer flowers and warm  
pines filling their senses. The blue sky with its attendant white clouds  
harboured familiar birdsong, each contour of the land repainting itself in  
memory, evoking the past. Up rises and down dips, dodging through defiles  
and leaping over streams they galloped. The horse snorting and blowing his  
excitement, Elrond feeling his heart soaring with anticipation.

Home. Home. At last. At long, long last, they were here. The shapes of the  
mountains, the twists of the trail, the cry of the plovers, the smell of  
heather, the very shade of the sunlight, all proclaimed it loud and  
gloriously. And as they rounded the last bend, there it was, laid out in  
all its splendour.

Imladris. That great, green rift valley, shelter, haven, home. Welcoming,  
comforting, safe, familiar. This was why they had fought, this was the  
reason he had endured so much darkness. The only thing that could have kept  
him away for so long was the need to protect it.

The sentry at the head of the valley had seen the horse’s approach, and  
with a heart-leap of recognition had cried the word downward. The Lord of  
Imladris had returned.

Elrond slowed his mount to a prancing walk to negotiate the steep descent.  
From around him shouts and cries of welcome sounded forth, as sentries and  
workers alike raised hands and voices in greeting and welcome. Passing the  
word with cries of joy. He breathed deeply, savouring every breath, his  
eyes roaming left and right, feasting themselves on his homeland, drinking  
in every leaf, every stone, the sighing of the trees, the rushing of the  
waterfalls. All around him his people, shouting, singing, weeping - delight  
on every face, rejoicing in their hearts.

 

 

Dawn was streaking the sky before he finally took some rest in his own  
chamber. First there had been the greeting of his household and the taking  
of the evening meal. Then storytelling and songs late into the night. The  
joy of his homecoming was tempered with the knowledge of Gil-galad’s fall,  
and many were the laments sung to that great King. When he was finally able  
to excuse himself, he had spent the rest of the night walking the familiar  
paths, immersing himself in the peace and tranquility of his home.  
Reacquainting himself with every favourite place, visiting each special  
corner. Memories of his King pressed him closely, walks they had taken,  
remembered words echoing among the trees and rocks, and as the night grew  
darker he wept in silent sorrow, mourning the passing of his friend and  
lord. The loss immeasurable to himself, to the Elves and to all of Middle  
Earth.

As he closed the door behind him, he stood for a moment with eyes closed.  
Breathing, listening, feeling, as the familiar comfort of his chamber  
enveloped him. Then he looked about slowly, the room was exactly as he had  
left it, though he was very different. He walked around, touching  
everything, running his fingers lovingly along the books, stroking the soft  
hangings of the bed, pushing open the doors to the balcony and stepping  
out. The garden stretched in front of him, running down to the river, in  
the centre of it the foliage of the young oak was just starting to turn.

All these he had wanted to show her, to share with her. The silver sound of  
the water, the rustle of the leaves in the wind, the owl calling as he  
headed home. Many times he had imagined her here, so strongly had he seen  
it that he could not believe that she was not. He expected at any moment to  
hear her step behind him, her soft voice calling his name, her touch upon  
his shoulder.

“You cannot be gone from me, my little sleeper.” he whispered, “I have  
hardly had time to know you.” He looked about him at the dark shapes of the  
trees, then up at the fading stars, tears blurring their light. “There are  
so many things still to be shared. So many words I have yet to speak.” His  
heart felt like it was made of molten lead. “Oh, Gil, do not leave me alone  
again.” He bowed his head, weighted by the loneliness pressing on him. The  
barren vista of empty years opened before him, stretching unbroken into the  
future. “Find me. From wherever you are, come to me, however long the  
journey. For without you my soul is lost, and my heart bereft. Let me but  
hold you in my arms once more, and I swear that none shall take you from me  
again.”

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

Elrond breathed deeply, inhaling the sharp air blowing down from the Misty  
Mountains. Savouring the invigorating tang of heather and hint of snow. He  
was seated on a rock, at the very highest point of the valley. From here  
all of the beauty of Rivendell was laid out before him, even to the Ford at  
Bruinen, far to his right. The first green flush of spring covered the  
banks, and tinged the branches of the yet bare trees. On the left, the  
steep path led out of Imladris and made its way over the wild moor to the  
snow-covered mountain pass. Far below and still some distance off, he could  
see people and horses, guests who would arrive within the hour.

The wind sang about him, flapping his cloak and whipping his dark hair  
across his face. Above him the cries of the curlews yearned over the dark  
gorse, as they dipped and swooped in the clear sky.

For many years now he had come up to this place, watching and waiting,  
cherishing against all reason the spark of hope that she might, somehow,  
still be alive. Knowing that if she was, she would keep her promise to  
come. Many hours he had spent looking along the roads, both to East and to  
West. But now, the lifetime of a mortal had come and gone, and it was time  
to lay that last hope to rest, and by so doing keep a promise.

“I would have sought nothing more than to have lived alone with your  
memory.” he whispered. “But then you knew that, long before I ever did.” In  
his hand he cradled an Elrhîw, and as he looked down at the tiny white  
bloom, a tear dropped to glisten among the delicate petals. “Ah, Gil, it  
was not to be, a time for us, a place for us. No years of joy together, no  
sharing of home and hearth. Only a brief happiness snatched in the midst of  
dark days, before you were torn from me, between one breath and the next.”  
He looked up, his eyes distant. “And yet, painful though the wound is, I  
would not trade even a moment of our time together to lessen it.”

He stood, throwing back his cloak to the wind, his hair flying free.  
“Farewell, my love.” He lifted his hand, and opened it so that the wind  
caught the flower, bearing it away, the same wind drying the tear on his  
cheek. Then he turned and made his way down the path to greet the party  
from LÍ³rien.

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

 

“And so he kept his promise.” Arwen’s voice was very quiet, and her face  
was turned towards the dawnlit garden.

“Yes.” Galeria answered, “ He brought your mother here from LÍ³rien, and  
made a family. In time he found peace, and with his children he at last  
found joy.”

“And Mother?”

Galeria smiled sadly, “Your mother was wise, beautiful and gentle, but she  
had not the strength needed, and he did not share his sorrows with her. He  
gave her everything of honour and tenderness, but their hearts remained  
hidden from each other.”

“Why did he never say anything of this?”

“He would not have dishonoured your mother so. He shut that part of his  
life away, it was the past, it could not be changed, and the memory of it  
caused him only pain.”

Arwen became silent, lost in thought. Galeria rose noiselessly to her feet,  
quietly gathering the teacups, and crossed to the door. Just as she opened  
it to leave, she heard the other whisper. “Oh Father.”

 

 

Elrond was standing at the rail, looking out at the early morning sky.  
Arwen stood for a long moment in silence, watching him. Seeing him in a new  
light. This Elf, her father, closest to her of all beings in Middle Earth,  
save only one, harboured heavy secrets, bearing them alone and in silence,  
for thousands of years.

Once she had thought him incapable of love, mistaking his reserve and  
pursuit of duty for lack of feeling. Following her mother’s departure she  
had spent many years in LÍ³rien, soothing her sorrow in its golden woods,  
unable to comprehend her father’s quiet acceptance of her mother’s choice.  
How could he let her go? Why did he not fight to keep her with him? She had  
always believed it was because he could not truly love, but now she could  
see that a heart so often torn asunder by loss must be carefully guarded.

And she herself, his only and beloved daughter, had also made a choice to  
take the path away from him. It pained her greatly to know that she too,  
would hurt him, but she could not do otherwise, any more than he could not  
have loved his Gildinwen.

A sigh of sorrow escaped her, and with a rustle of silk he turned. A smile  
came to the darkened eyes, and he held out his hands to welcome her.

“Father.” She came forward to take them.

“Arwen. You are not resting?”

“No.” she smiled, “I am wakeful, like you.”

He smiled fondly and lifted a gentle hand to brush her face. “Yes, my  
daughter, of all my children, you are most like me.” He sighed, long and  
slow. “I should not have been surprised when you came to love Estel - for  
he is everything that is good in a Mortal. A true son of the Edain, as they  
were in times long past.” His eyes were bottomless with memories. “Brave  
and wise as a Firstborn, and yet with that strength and enduring love  
unique to the children of Man.”

Arwen smiled and squeezed his hands gently, touched beyond speech at his  
words. Never before had he spoken highly of Aragorn to her, always she had  
felt his silent disapproval.

“Oh my daughter.” He said, “Before us there are two paths, each leading to  
separate sorrows. For either the darkness shall fall again upon Middle  
Earth, and I shall have failed my King, and you shall have lost your love.  
Or you will take the mortal life, be crowned Queen of Arnor and Gondor, and  
I shall travel to the West alone.” He looked away, out into the darkness.  
“And even though the better of the choices will grant you some happiness, I  
fear it will be short, and at the end you will be in sorrow and without  
comfort.” His voice caught so that he could not continue.

She touched his arm. “I will have my memories, Father. A life lived in love  
and companionship. Is a short life so not better than a long one of  
loneliness and waiting?”

He turned his gaze upon her, searching her soft eyes, a hint of a tear in  
his.

“Yes.” His voice was quiet and heavy with unspoken words. “Yes, my  
daughter, it is indeed.”


	28. Epilogue: Faithful to the Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Elrond sat back in his chair with a tired sigh, cradling his wine cup in one fine hand, and closing his eyes. At his right hand a small table held a simple meal, scarcely touched. Slowly the duties and cares of the day faded from his face, but they were not replaced by a look of peace, rather by sorrow and a deep loneliness. Only a single lamp softened the darkness of his chamber, but the doors to the balcony were open, admitting the soft evening breeze and the pale light of the moon. Faint sounds of music drifted up from the Hall of Fire. Songs were being sung, in celebration of the crowning of the new Queen of Gondor and Arnor, and for the homecoming of the Master of Imladris. 

But Elrond felt no joy, only a great weary sadness. It was over. Finally. The Ring had been destroyed, Sauron had been vanquished forever. He had fulfilled the last service to his long dead king. His daughter was wed in happiness and splendour in City of Kings. The Age of Man had begun. Yet for him, it was a hollow victory, bringing only empty days and lonely nights.

He felt his eyelids begin to flutter and his mind to flow into dreams. Would she appear again tonight? He had not been able to explain it, why Gil should come to mind now, after all this time, but she had walked in his dreams every night since he had left Minas Tirith. Perhaps it was the finding of the Ring that had stirred up the past, or being once again in the land of Gondor. Bittersweet it was, seeing her again, awakening the old, old pain - long buried but never healed. And yet, behind the loss and the sorrow, shone the memory of happiness and love.

 

 

The moon was bright outside, casting sharp shadows against the walls of the house, and over the flagstones of the paths. Paths along which a slight, dark figure trod silently, each barefooted step noiseless on the smooth stone. And although many Elves walked and sang in the gardens of Rivendell, yet none discerned the visitor slipping amongst them. The face was hidden in the shadow of a cloak, whose grey-green folds covered the livery of an ancient house. Past the brightly lit windows, looking in wonder at the beauty of the house, lightly over the grass, pausing beneath the huge oak to gaze upward at the ancient branches, then with a soft and slow pace, up each of the steps that led to the balcony of the Lord’s chamber. Coming to a stop at the threshold, blending with the shadows, to look in upon the Master of Imladris as he sat dreaming. But at the sight so presented, a tiny sharp cry, too tardily stifled, broke from the lips.

 

 

Elrond’s eyes flickered and focused. Was she there? In the doorway, silhouetted against the moonlight. 

“Gil.” He whispered.

She moved forward with a hesitating step, pushing back the hood of the cloak.

It was her. So close, so real, he could almost reach out for her.

“It is you, my little sleeper.” The saddest of smiles came to his face. “Still haunting my dreams.” He breathed a long sigh as the memories rose in him, the ache of longing that had never truly gone. “I miss you so very much, even after all these many, long years.” He closed his eyes and a single tear fluttered from his lash. “If I could have but one wish, it would be that you were here with me now. You would know how to warm this empty place that was my heart.”

“Oh my love.” Her voice was soft as she crossed to him, and the arms she placed about him felt so comforting and familiar. “I am here. I am here.” 

Leaning his head against her breast, and clasping her to him, she felt so alive, so real. The stroke of her hand, the whisper of her lips against his hair, it was a though she were truly present. He gave himself up to it, closing his eyes against the world, feeling only her closeness, the warmth of her in his arms, the steady heartbeat beneath his ear. “Oh that I might never awake.” He murmured.

“Elrond.” Her voice was gentle, yet insistent, filled with that timbre of love that had echoed in his ears so long ago. “Elrond.”

“Yes, my heart?” he whispered, pressing his face to her, not daring to open his eyes or speak aloud, lest she vanish.

“You do not dream.” Her hand stroked the hair away from his face.

“What do you mean?” But it was too late, already his mind was folding in, returning to the world, the dream fleeing as his eyes opened to see the shadows of his room against the moonlight.

“I am here.” Her voice was quiet. Her arms still surrounded him, the press of fabric against his face, the warmth of her body clasped to him. He tightened his embrace, feeling the contours of flesh and bone beneath his hands.

He sprang to his feet with a cry of disbelief, gripping her by the shoulders, astonishment driving all speech from him. Keeping hold of her with one hand, he reached with the other to turn up the lamp. 

It was her. Gaunt and tired. Hair short and ragged, but undeniably Gil. Standing before him, here in his chamber at Rivendell. Three thousand years after he had given her up for lost. Still unable to speak he touched her face, running his fingers softly over the well remembered features, down over the neck, his brow creasing with sorrow as they encountered the iron collar, across the shoulders and down the arms. Pushing back the ragged sleeves of her tunic he stroked the deep scars about the thin wrists, then took her hands in his, the left crudely bandaged. Her eyes were the same, the dark familiar depths that he had looked into so many times, brimming now.

“But how?” He whispered. 

A wavering smile came to her face, as she blinked back her tears. “The deepest rooms in the Tower of Barad-dûr had neither window nor door. Sunk into the very rock of the foundations. No gaolors stood guard, the very power of the Ring itself held them fast. For those imprisoned within, there was no escape, not even in age or death. Cursed to remain out of time, immobile, frozen, neither waking nor asleep. Only the command of Lord Sauron could release them.”

Elrond nodded slowly, “But when the Ring was destroyed, that power was broken.”

He looked at her again, taking in the exhaustion on her face, and guided her to sit in his chair, kneeling in front of her, and taking her hands again. “I looked for you.” Pain was raw in his voice, “I searched everywhere. I had that tower torn down stone by stone but I could not find you.” His words caught, “And then Mardil brought me your band, and we feared the worst.”

“Oh my love!” she tightened her hands about his, swallowing her tears. “I gave it to the gaoler, so that he would let me keep your cloak.” A tear fell from her eye. “It was all I had of you, and it was a comfort to me when I had no other.”

He pressed her hands to his chest, unable to tear his eyes from her face. “And now you have returned to me, out of the land of Darkness and from the depths of time.”

“I did not know if I should come.” She whispered, “I did not know how things would stand between us after all these years.” She smiled sadly, “But I had given my word that I would, and besides, how could I not look upon the face of my love, even for only one last time. I thought that I would come in secret, just to look on you, to see that you were happy.” Her voice caught, “Then when I saw you here – it was as my dream, such a look of sorrow and loneliness upon your face, that I thought my heart would burst forth from me.”

“Oh Gil.” He reached his arms about her, gathering her close, back into his arms again. “You are here. You are home now.” One long hand cradled the back of her shorn head against his shoulder. “Never again will anyone take you from me.” He inhaled the scent of her, and it was as if the years disappeared, and she had never been away from him. Again and again he breathed her in, clasping her to him, unable even from moment to moment to believe that she was real. She leaned into him, settling her head in the crook of his neck, weariness seeping from her.

He gathered himself, forcing his mind to work, to deal with practicalities. “Come.” He shifted her weight back into the chair, and rose to his feet, “Are you hungry?”

She nodded with a tired grin, and he reached to take bread from the table to give her. “Eat.” He poured a little wine into the cup, and she took a small mouthful.

He pulled up another chair to sit opposite her. “How did you travel from Mordor?”

“I walked,” she smiled slightly, “I knew the way.” She looked about the room in quiet amazement. “It is exactly as I saw in my vision.” She returned her gaze to Elrond, “The house, the gardens, the oak tree.”

“How did you know?” he asked, reaching out to touch her again, “When you escaped from Mordor, that so many years had passed?”

A dark look came over her and she shivered. “When I returned to myself, all around was chaos. Rocks reiving, stones falling and scattering, the ground itself heaving and shuddering. Darkness was everywhere and the sound of wailing and terrible screams. I do not know how I got out, but I managed to make my way up the foothills of the Erid Lithui. From there I could see the destruction of the Tower as it sank beneath the earth, engulfed by fire from Orodruin. At first I was terrified to think that the army of the Alliance had been so consumed, for I could see no trace of them, and the plateau of Gorgoroth was buried beneath the wrath of the mountain.” She paused to take another sip of wine, while Elrond stroked her arm comfortingly. “But when night fell and the ash settled,” she continued, “I could see the truth.” Her voice fell, “The stars…” She looked down, and he tightened his hand on hers, “…were all wrong.”

“Oh, my heart.” He whispered.

“I knew that a great number of years must have passed but could not tell how many it might be.” She turned her eyes upon him again, “But as I made my way here, everything was familiar, as though I had walked the path before but had not remembered. And when I saw the garden and it was just as my vision, I knew I would find you.”

“You have found me, my love.” And he smiled slowly, a great light coming over his face and shining in his eyes, as he lifted her hands to his lips. He frowned as they brushed the dressing about her hand, and he lowered it to remove the soiled bandage. His mouth tightened with anger at the sight of the ruined fingers and scarred flesh. The back was seared with a deep brand. “Is this the mark of your gaolor?” he growled.

“No.” she whispered. “It is that of the torturer.”

“It is fortunate for him that he has already been dead for three thousand years.” Elrond’s voice shook with anger. 

Gil gasped. “Is it really that long?”

He nodded gravely, and she shook her head in wonder. “I have so many questions, and I think you have much to tell.”

His smile came again. “Indeed I do, my love.” He rose to his feet, “But it must wait until the morrow. For now let me bring a salve for this wound.” 

He crossed the room to fetch his box of medicines, and when he returned she had already fallen asleep in his chair.

 

 

Gil hardly noticed as Elrond gently bound her hand. Weariness engulfed her, and yet it was with peace that she gave herself up to it. At last she was safe. At last she could rest. She murmured slightly as she felt his strong arms lift her, and removing the cloak, place her in his own bed.

“Rest now, my little sleeper.” He whispered, folding her into his embrace, “I will watch over you.”

‘My beautiful dreamer.’ She wanted to say, but before she could even think the words she had drifted into sleep.

 

 

Standing at the balustrade, looking out at the evening light on the garden, Gildinwen thought of the many things she had learned in the weeks since she had come to Imladris. Of Gil-galad’s death, Isildur’s taking of the Ring, the return of Sauron and the journey of the Ringbearer. Her mind still struggled to accept that she had been away for so long, that the world had passed her by as she lay, bound in darkness, entombed in the foundation stone of Barad-dûr. So many of her friends were long dead, and she would never see them again – Mardil, Bregor Gillow, Loreglin. But Galeria resided still at Rivendell, and many were the tears of joy they had shed at reunion. Peace she had now, and a home, a place of love and safety. 

Behind her, she heard Elrond’s step. She did not turn and he did not speak, but placed his hands on her shoulders. She felt her heart ache and she longed for him to hold her. Not in a comforting protective embrace, rather to touch her in that way they had once shared so easily. But three thousand years is a long time, even for an Elf, and although less than a year had seemed to pass for her, he had lived a whole lifetime. Had a wife and children, a family. She tried not to be envious, because she was glad he had found some happiness, and she knew she should be satisfied to still have his love. But her heart tormented her, his wife had been so beautiful, and they had lived together a thousand years. She knew she could never compare, especially now, with the indelible marks of Barad-dûr upon her. ‘Perhaps I should not have come.’ She thought, ‘Let the past stay buried, rather than bring dark memories to this place.’

“You are very quiet, my little sleeper.” He whispered, turning her slowly, “but your thoughts are loud.”

She looked at him, unable to hide the sadness in her eyes. 

He stroked her hair back from her face with his long hands, and she could not prevent the tear that fell.

“Ah, no.” he brushed it away. “Let there be no more tears. Too many have been shed already.” He pressed a kiss softly to her brow, his strong arms reaching to hold her close. Hands stroked her back, and his lips moved over her eyes, gently, softly. Then down, brushing the corner of her mouth. 

She quivered as if it were the first time, and his hands spread against her, clasping her tightly to him. His mouth was on hers now, bringing warmth to her cold lips, awakening her. She clung to him, pressing herself against his familiar contour, opening her mouth to his advance. The familiar taste of him tearing a line of desire through her. She gave herself up to him entirely, leaning into his embrace, letting him hold her, her lips soft and open, eyes closed. 

She felt a hand in her hair, strong fingers wrapping themselves in it, tugging her head back, his body awakened now, pressing needfully against her. 

He lowered his mouth to her neck, kissing her throat, lips soft on the terrible scars. She gasped aloud. 

Suddenly he drew back, dropping his hands, a look of shame on his face. “I’m sorry..” he whispered, “I…”

Confused she looked at him, a riot of emotion seething in her. “Elrond? What is it?”

He stepped back from her with a troubled frown.

“I should not have….” He looked away, “I am sorry.”

Her face was a mask of dismay. 

“I…I am too precipitate. I should know better. You need time to heal.”

She had indeed been a fool to think things could be as they were. He had tried, perhaps out of pity, but she was flawed, damaged, an outrage and a shame in this place of beauty. 

She turned quickly away, tears of pain and regret blinding her eyes. 

Was that it then? All those years in that place, all the long, exhausting miles, just to step away without speaking her heart? To hide herself from him who knew her very soul.

She stopped. 

No. 

She took a deep breath and turned back to him.

“Elrond.” Her voice was very firm. “Look at me.”

He met her gaze with some reluctance. 

“You are killing me, my lord.” She was blunt. “I need to know what it is you want.”

His face was pained.

“I made you a promise.” She continued, “To come here, and live with you for all my days, your wife, in all but name.”

He straightened and met her look with his own.

“I have come here to fulfill that promise.” Her voice was quiet but strong, “Not out of duty, but because it is what my heart truly desires.” She swallowed, “Yet I know that I am not how I was, and that many, many years have come and gone. I know that you have made a life without me. And I would not have wished it otherwise.” She tried her best to smile at him. “Now you must tell me truly, how things stand between us. Will they be as they were before, or….” Her voice almost failed her. “Or not?” she took strength again. “I must have an honest answer, whatever it is I will accept it.”

“Gil.” He strode across the room to take her hands. “I love you till I think my heart cannot contain it. Every morning I thank Illúvatar who has returned you from the dead to be by my side again. I want to hold you to me, and never let you go. There is not a moment of the day when I do not want to touch you. I want to take you in my arms and kiss all your hurt away.” His eyes were intense, locked on hers. “I want to experience every pleasure that we had before, and all the ones we did not. But I feared that in my impatience I might hurt you, frighten you, drive you away…..”

She stepped back into his embrace and placed a finger on his lips.

“Hush, my love. It is I. There need be no hiding of yourself, no pretence, no holding back. For I love every part of you, and naught you say or do can change that. You are my beautiful dreamer, my Elf-lord, the king of my heart and I wish nothing more than to spend all my days and nights with you.” She removed the finger, and brought her mouth up to his. “And now,” she whispered, “that’s enough talk.”

 

 

His hands took their place again, and his mouth replied to hers. She leaned into his embrace, letting him hold her as she closed her eyes to all but the taste and feel of him, and the awakening of her body. Softly, his lips stroked hers, their warmth and sweetness making her breath catch, and when he teased them apart with his tongue she felt her limbs weaken. His arms caught her, and as he released her mouth with a gasp, he lifted her easily, carrying her to the comfort and privacy of his bedchamber.

 

[If you are over 18 and want to see what happened next, please refer to: 

The Standard Bearer – Extra Scenes. Scene 6: Truly Home]

 

The gentle flush of dawn was streaking the sky when Gil awoke. A feeling of complete contentment and peace suffused her entire body. She felt supremely comfortable, warm and safe. At her back, a protective presence, a familiar heartbeat, and about her, two strong arms. The faint light made its way through the trees, which rustled quietly outside, the sound of the river tinkled in the distance, and a blackbird cleared his throat for his morning song.

“You are awake.” He whispered.

 

 

Fin.


	29. Author's Notes etc.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic adventure and love story (Elrond and Original Character) against the backdrop of the Last Alliance. Action-packed and big on plot. Why is the last daughter of an impoverished House of Man journeying through hardship and sorrow to the High King of the Noldor? The answers will take you from the Outlands of Gondor, through the Battlefields of Dagorlad to the very gates of Barad-dur - and beyond.

Author’s Notes and General Ramblings

“And then what?!” I hear you asking. I have deliberately left the story here so that the reader may choose whatever fate for the two that he desires. I could not bring myself to commit to an ending either within or against the canon. According to JRRT, Elrond has to leave for the Havens in about two years, Gil cannot accompany him and he would not leave her behind, so in order to be true to canon she would have to die, but that is so sad……

Personally, I like to think that they lived together in happiness for many years, and that Gil bore Elrond a child. When she finally passed to the Fate of Man, Elrond made his way over the Sea, accompanied by their son. It is a dream I have……..

This story has utterly consumed my life for the four months it took to write. I have been driven to write it. It is the first piece of any length that I have attempted and on the whole I am quite pleased with how it has turned out. Like others I am sure, it was largely inspired by the words of the song, ‘Breaking of the Fellowship’ from the Lord of the Rings movie:

 

When the cold of winter comes  
Starless night will cover day  
In the veiling of the sun  
We will walk in bitter rain.    
  
But in dreams  
I can hear your name  
And in dreams  
We will be together.  
  
When the seas and mountains fall  
And we come to end of days  
In the dark I hear her call  
Calling me there  
I will go there  
And back again.

 

I wish to thank all my readers for your comments and encouragement. It has been invaluable. Without a reader a writer has no use. I would also like to thank JRRT for creating the wonderful of Middle Earth, and the character of Elrond who has so touched me, and in addition Hugo Weaving for bringing Elrond to life so well in the film.

 

For those of you who have not yet let me know what you think of the story, I would greatly appreciate it if you would do so. In particular, if you feel like answering any of the questions below, I would be most interested to hear your view.

 

What drew you to read the story in the first place?

What did you think of the original characters. Like/not like? Why?

What about my portrayal of existing characters – believable?

Did you read the whole story? If not where did you stop? Why?

Did you skip over any parts? Which?

Did you read any parts more than once? Which? Why?

What was your favourite/least favourite scene/chapter? Why?

Did you see where the story was going or were you surprised?

What would you have changed?

What aspect of the story did you like most/least?

How many hankies did you need?

 

 

For anyone interested, various pieces of music became associated with parts of the story as I wrote, rather like a soundtrack:

 

The Banner Unfurled The Massacre by Trevor Jones from The Last of the Mohicans.

Enough Talk Duduk of the North by Hans Zimmer from More Music from the motion picture Gladiator

The Muster Summon the Heroes by John Willaims from Call of Champions

Stay with Me! Purple Rain by Prince

Harp of Maglor Largo from Xerxes by Handel

Elrond’s Song Gloomy Winter’s Now Awa’ by Robert Tannahill, adapted by Dougie MacLean from Celtic Connections

The Dark Gates Close Hanging and Escape by Craig Armstrong from Plunkett and Macleane.

The Time for Peace 

Making is Over Roll Tide by Hans Zimmer from Crimson Tide

Farewell, My Love Who Wants to Live Forever? By Queen from It’s A Kind of Magic

Faithful to the Last Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis by Vaughan Williams.


End file.
